Season of the Witch
by shalashaskalot
Summary: A favor for a friend puts Eleanora in the sights of Dr. Lecter after she catches him off guard in a one and a million chance. Hannibal doesn't like being surprised but Eleanora turns into one that he learns to appreciate. She sees through his blinding charm in a way that, for once, makes him feel exceptionally vulnerable. And he likes it. Hannibal X OC.
1. Chapter 1

"Nora!"

A familiar voice broke Eleanora's attention away from her tedious work. She glanced up to see Alana Bloom bobbing happily toward her, arms outstretched for a welcome hug. She squeezed Nora tightly, careful not to knock over her flower arrangement she'd been so diligently working on.

"Where have you been?" Nora asked, shaking her playfully by the shoulders. "It's like you haven't been around in months!"

"I know, there's just...a lot of stuff going on with work that's had my attention," Alana told her. Nora felt a grim undertone to her voice; something must have been horribly wrong but Alana would never let onto that.

"What? Is that FBI guy dragging you around again?"

"Sort of. It's a long story. But hey, come eat lunch with me. I have a little side job you might like," she said quickly, dismissing Nora's prying.

Nora cleared her lunch break with her manager and the two set out walking, Alana babbling about how she'd been absolutely run into the ground by some guy Nora only knew as Jack. She suspected he was the main FBI agent that had asked for Alana's consulting in the first place, but Alana's description of her work with him and what they really did remained a mystery to Nora. Sometimes she'd drop hints that it was forensic in nature, almost like investigating crime scenes, but Nora couldn't imagine Alana doing such a thing.

They settled on a small cafe, ushering each other in out of a snow that had only picked up intensity as they walked.

"So what's this side job?" Nora asked, settling into a booth near the front window. "Cats? Dogs? Vegetable garden?"

"Dogs, actually. Dogs and a house. It's a good ways out from here in the county but it's close to a general store and some diners, and there's internet and TV. Kind of slow internet but you can watch movies all you want," Alana answered. She pulled her coat tightly around herself, her eyes scanning the street outside. She wouldn't look Nora in the eyes. "I know you don't have a car but Uber runs that way too."

"I take it this is a friend of yours?"

"Yes...a really good friend," she sighed. "He's in a bit of trouble and he won't be home for a while. I've been taking care of everything but with everything that's going on I won't have time to really go out there and check on his dogs. They need company. Not just somebody to feed them."

"I can do that. Is he okay with this?" Nora asked. "Your friend, that is. Is he out of town?"

"Oh I already talked to him about it," Alana quipped. A little too quickly. For a professor of psychology, she was really bad at lying. "He's just got some family issues going on, he's staying somewhere north of here until it blows over."

Nora looked at her over the rim of her over-sized vintage glasses, her thin eyebrows shooting up.

"Just trust me. He's a cool guy. There's nothing weird going on, I just don't want to divulge his privacy or anything," Alana fumbled. "He's the same age as us. He likes fishing, he's really good with animals..."

"If you say so. I mean I'll do it, I just don't want him coming home and me be there sprawled out on his couch like I live there and he's not expecting me."

"That won't happen. But look. I'll make it up to you. He'll pay you and I'll get you into the university's library."

"Why haven't you let me into the library before?"

Alana giggled. "I've never had to ask a serious favor before. Now I have leverage."


	2. Chapter 2

"Wolf Trap" was not an appealing name for a town, Nora thought. Alana babbled to her endlessly as she drove but Nora's mind was elsewhere, her gaze directed out the car window and onto the tree line at the edge of the road that seemed so tall and imposing. Old woods, she mused. Never disturbed by lumber companies.

"You know, I've never seen you in pants," Alana remarked, finally breaking her hazy thoughts. "You're so thin. And your legs are so long! You're like a completely different person!"

Nora glanced down at herself warily. She didn't like pants in the least but dogs were prone to tearing her soft skirts.

"It feels weird, honestly," she admitted. "But what I usually wear isn't really dog friendly. So I keep jeans around just in case."

"You should wear them more often. It's really flattering. But anyway. I think you'll really like Winston. He only came up a while ago but we fed him and he stuck around.."

Alana's voice trailed off in the back of Nora's mind as her attentions drifted back to the snow-dusted trees. She clutched her bag of groceries to her chest as if that would somehow comfort her; there was just something so off-putting about the whole situation. Alana's vagueness being the number one problem. She trusted Alana and had for years since they'd met at the flower shop. But her heart fluttered nervously at the thought that she was possibly dog-sitting for one of Alana's clients. It seemed wrong.

It felt like they'd been driving for months by the time Alana pulled into the driveway. It was a quaint farm house with a large front porch, the yard dotted with sparse shrubbery. Whoever lived there wasn't much for landscaping. But the house itself looked well taken care of despite its age.

"You'll love this place," Alana beamed. "It's cozy. There's a fireplace and lots of retro furniture."

"It looks nice. Where are the dogs?"

No sooner than she had asked, dogs poured out from the doggie door like ants from an anthill. Her mouth fell open slightly at the sight of it. How many even were there?

They all greeted Alana happily, nearly taking her down when she stepped out of the car. Some of them ventured around to say hi to Nora and she let them sniff her thoroughly, still aghast at just how many there were. Alana had not specified.

"He likes to keep strays," Alana said, as if that was an explanation. "Lots of them. He's a good guy. C'mon, I'll show you where everything is."

They waded through the cascade of dogs and into the house. Alana plopped a cold key in her hand, motioning for her to follow her into the kitchen.

"You can put your food up in here. I kind of cleaned it out after he said he wouldn't be back for a while, so the fridge is mostly empty," Alana continued.

"And where's the store?"

"Walking distance up the road a little farther. They have some stuff but if you get a ride back into the city I'd recommend stocking up there."

"Okay...where do I sleep?"

"Good question. Do you want to sleep down here or do you want the room upstairs?"

Nora shuddered at the idea of sleeping in the cold upstairs alone. "Down here would be much better," she told Alana. "I don't really feel comfortable-"

"That's fine! The bathroom is down here anyway. The dogs sleep in front of the fireplace. Oh, and I need to show you where all their food is."

* * *

It took a while for Alana to get Nora settled in, but once she was gone, Nora felt a little more comfortable. Alana's nervousness wasn't really helping at all.

She managed to get her laptop communicating with the wifi and curled into a funky retro chair she took a liking to, placing her laptop on the matching ottoman so she could watch a movie. What, she wasn't sure, and Netflix wasn't very helpful in suggesting anything. She finally settled on a documentary. Something about a serial killer named H.H. Holmes.

She'd heard of him before, about his "murder house", and it was something she could ignore in the background while she read. It wasn't particularly her taste but she could never resist a good gritty documentary.

The dogs were already accustomed to her. They piled around the chair lazily, basking in the warmth from the fireplace. She absently petted them as she read about plants commonly used in alcoholic beverages, musing to herself that she wished she had a glass of wine.

It occurred to her that there was an awful lot of blankets and pillows downstairs. Initially, she dismissed the thought. Maybe the owner just liked to nap on the couch. But her eyes strayed from her book and she scanned the room curiously. Most of his belongings were downstairs. She noticed a worn phone charger plugged in by the couch, tucked behind a rather flattened pillow, as if he slept with it behind the pillow. Parts of...something littered the coffee table.

Was it fishing equipment? She noticed a spool of clear line and a small box of what looked like brightly colored plumes of feathers beneath the table.

The more she looked, the less interested she became in her book. His other belongings were so out of place. Books on shelves that had no theme or relation to the other items in the house. Motocross? Rose gardening? Pictures that looked like they'd been taken in the 1970s. Maybe they were his, but they way Alana talked about him, it seemed like he'd be around their age and all the vintage items didn't really fit. It was like the owner was a ghost in his own house.

She dismissed the thought, forcing herself to get back into her book. She told herself that it was just because she was in an unfamiliar environment, that this feeling of dread would go away, but she jumped when a wet nose hit the back of her hand.

A wiry haired dog beamed up at her, tail wagging. She gave him a generous petting but she found herself suddenly with a lap full of dog, his cold nose rooting her book out of her hand, so she accepted her fate. His warmth was comforting at least.

But even with his warmth, the cold of the house seeped into her bones hour by hour until her only relief was sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The dogs were her alarm clock. Each day, they woke her by nosing her and whining, waiting patiently beside her to be fed. They all ate like it was their last meal before pouring out into the yard for play.

She didn't really get dressed most days to go out with them. Not a single person seemed to come by the house or even down the road, so she sat out in her warm pajamas and snow boots, sipping her tea and watching the dogs vigilantly from the porch.

After the first few days, she managed to call a private taxi all the way out to get her and let her go home to pick up more groceries and more clothes. She checked her plants briefly before heading back out into the country. Alana called and assured her she'd make up for the money she used to call the taxi but Nora didn't particularly care, she was more intent on trying to enjoy her brief little "vacation" from work even if she felt vaguely intrusive and out of place.

The ride back gave her such a strange feeling of unease. The snow had picked up a little more and she wondered if the house had a generator; there weren't really any trees around the house to knock out the power but there were huge trees all along the road that could do it easily if it iced. Weather reports didn't mention ice but they were never right anyway.

It occurred to her when she got back that there were no batteries or matches or even candles in the house, and with the snow as it was she steeled herself for a walk to the store Alana had told her about.

She put on a couple of layers of socks and her best sweater and coat, tying a scarf around her tightly, and plunged into the cold. The dogs followed her closely no matter how hard she chided them to go back and eventually she gave in, letting them plow a small trail behind her. It was better than being alone she told herself.

A glance behind her told her that her tracks beside the ditch were probably going to be filled in on her way back, but she could see the road itself fairly clearly.

The road split in a deep grove of woods about a half a mile down from the house, and nestled on a slope in the fork in the road was an old timey gas station. The pumps looked like they didn't even function but they still advertised "ethanol free gas" and a price that was at least 20 cents more than in town. It was a faded old wooden facade that she imagined had been there since around the same time as the house and she began to doubt they had anything she was looking for.

Thankfully, it was still open. The dogs piled up outside under the awning and waited patiently, obviously used to a routine of some sort.

A younger woman with mousy brown hair greeted her quietly, huddled behind a ramshackle corner counter lined with as many cigarette and tobacco displays as it could hold. It was like she'd never seen a new person before and she stared at Nora uncomfortably as she pilfered through the narrow aisles.

Old dingy black and white tile floor. Uncomfortably low ceiling. Coolers that had branding on them from the 80s. The first part of the store was all candy and snacks, surprisingly well stocked, but that wasn't what she was looking for.

"Do you have any batteries?" she asked the girl.

"Down there by the bait."

Bait. Jesus Christ, this store had everything and nothing at the same time, she thought.

The "down there" she referred to was a sunken section of the store. There were no steps, just a slick barren concrete slope that her snow boots refused to grip. The dingy checkerboard tile resumed and old, battered card tables and folding chairs dotted one side of the room near the window, a fresh cup of coffee and still-burning cigarette leaving a hazy curtain hanging in the air.

"Bait" was apparently out of season as the displays were empty and cricket tank was vacant. A pegboard of batteries that looked about 20 years old hung next to an assortment of plastic lures, along with a ton of mismatched odds and ends. No candles, just batteries and little lanterns/LED camping lights.

"Will here?"

The voice came from somewhere deeper in the sunken section of the store and Nora jumped, dropping her handful of batteries.

"No it's just his dogs," the cashier girl murmured.

An older man in a ratty plaid shirt stumbled out, taking his place at the unattended coffee and cigarette. He eyed Nora curiously and she shrugged it off, turning to make a break for the cashier, but of course the old guy had something to say about it.

"Hey. You got Will's dogs?" he asked, taking a long drag. "You that girl from the city he likes?"

Nora shrugged nervously, edging toward the other section of the store. "I'm taking care of his house while he's gone," she fumbled. "Just came to get some batteries in case the snow gets rough."

"It ain't gonna hurt that old house. You'll be fine. Who are you?"

God at the questions.

"I'm Eleanora," she said quickly. "Just helping out my friend."

"So you know Will Graham?"

That name. She'd heard it. She'd heard Alana say that name, she'd heard it on the news.

"Alana does. I think you're mistaking me for her, actually."

"Oh yeah. He does like her. I guess it was the dark hair that threw me off," he chuckled. "Well. We live in the back of this place, so if you need something we're always here. I'm Mike and that's my daughter, Janey."

Janey waved at her sheepishly from the front counter.

"Oh. Thank you," Nora said quietly. "I uh...it's kind of nice knowing you're close by, then."

"For sure. And we got more than just snacks, that empty bar up there is where we have lunch during the day. If you can stand the crowd come on down."

She nodded, her nerves settling for a moment. "Sure. I'll have to check that out."

Mike ended up sending her back to the house with a bag full of batteries and a sack of scraps for the dogs. They waved her off into the twilight, happy apparently just for the company. He'd offered her a ride but she politely declined, wanting to walk with the dogs so she could keep track of them.

The walk back seemed so much shorter. She picked scraps out of the bag as they went, trying to distribute them evenly among the dogs, but that didn't always work out. They seemed pretty familiar with the routine and the crumple of the paper sack sent them on a frenzy.

But she noticed something odd in the driveway of the house. Her stomach rolled; it wasn't Alana. It looked completely different from her car. As the grove of woods tapered off and she came back into the clearing she could barely make out that it was a rather expensive dark colored car she'd never seen the make or model of before. The porch lights barely illuminated it through the snow.

The dogs took off toward it before she could stop them and she struggled to keep up with them. They weren't barking which she hoped was a good sign - it seemed like whoever it was could be familiar.

They swarmed a figure that emerged from the house. All of them were bouncing happily around him except for Winston, who hung back from the pack warily. But just the silhouette of the person made her uneasy even though she couldn't see his face. Why was he in the house?

"Hey!" she called, finally stumbling into the driveway. "Hey, can I help you with something?!"

The man stepped out into the porch light, hands tucked into a well-tailored pea coat and a scarf pulled up tightly around his face. The shadows that the lights threw on his face were vaguely skeletal and Nora took a tentative step back, though nothing about his body language should have been off-putting.

"I could ask you the same thing," he replied. What an accent, she thought. "Are you a friend of Will's?"

"Are you?"

He gave her a warm smile, but the way his head tilted back ever so sightly as he studied her made her feel even more uneasy. It was like he was sizing her up somehow.

"Friend, and doctor," he answered finally. "And you are?"

"Nora," she said firmly. "Alana Bloom asked me to take care of his house and his dogs while he's away. Were you looking for him?"

"I had no clue she had asked someone to stay here. I check on his house regularly, myself." He extended a hand to her, his murky hazel eyes looking at her expectantly when she hesitated to shake his hand. His hand was almost hot to her, and smooth. Manicured. Well taken care of. "I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I apologize if I startled you; I wasn't aware anyone was staying here. I assumed your belongings were Alana's."

"It's okay, you just caught me off guard. I uh..." she trailed off, feeling his gaze settle on her in a way that was almost too intense for her to handle. She tried to needle back at him but it just felt like she was staring back at a marble bust. "You know what? I have some questions, if you don't mind. Let's go inside where it's warm."

* * *

Hannibal seemed intimately familiar with the house. He'd immediately made himself at home, dusting his shiny leather shoes off at the door and draping his pea coat over the back of her favorite chair. Obviously, he'd spent a lot of time with Will.

"Tea?" she asked nervously. "I brought my own. Black Darjeeling?"

He gave her a curt nod, his pleasant smile never shifting. "Of course. Fine choice."

He was well dressed, she noticed. So well dressed. Not a stitch out of place. His white button-down shirt fit him like a glove; everything had obviously been painfully tailored inch by inch. He exuded a lush opulence that she was completely unfamiliar with.

She set a pan of water to heat while she peeled out of her coat and scarf, shaking her long hair down out of its loose bun.

"Are you a gardener? A florist, maybe?" he asked, and she wheeled on him.

"How could you possibly know that?"

He looked away from her thoughtfully, as if he had to taste his words before he spoke. "You smell of greenery polish, for lack of a better definition. The clear shine they spray over arrangements to make them look fresh," he told her, and her jaw dropped ever so slightly. "And fresh soil. Tea."

"I-... Good observation," she said suspiciously, eying him over her glasses. "I guess I can't smell it on myself anymore, I'm so used to it. But anyway. You said Will was your friend? Do you know Alana as well?"

"Yes. Will was a patient of mine, and he and Alana are colleagues and friends as well. She's also one of my former students." He paced slowly against the island in the kitchen, his hands again tucked in his pockets. Nora never let her eyes leave him; she was already suspicious and he really wasn't doing a good job of building a case for himself.

He didn't seem human. He was handsome in ways she didn't quite understand as his face was just generally unusual and hard to read, so angled and harsh. And he carried himself so confidently, his broad shoulders never slumped.

"So you're a psychiatrist as well?" she asked.

"I'm not currently taking patients, but yes. I take it that you aren't familiar with Will Graham?"

She shook her head, her eyes slipping to the water nearly boiling on the stove momentarily. "I've never met him. Alana said he was out of town for some sort of situation and I babysit pets a lot as a side job so she asked if I would help her because she's too busy to do it. But she did say she talked to him about it."

"She must trust you, then. Will is a very dear friend of ours."

"I've known her for years, so I guess. But what's going on with him? When is he coming back?" she pressed. "Alana wouldn't tell me anything."

He grimaced slightly, pursing his thin lips. What have I gotten myself into, she thought.

"Do you watch the local news?" he asked. "Maybe I shouldn't indulge, but..."

"Not really."

"He...had a mental break, of sorts. He is currently being held on suspicion of murder."

Her jaw flopped open again and she stared blankly at Hannibal, unable to find words. She was staying in a possible murderer's house.

"Alana most likely elected not to tell you because she felt it would have...scared you off."

"I mean...it definitely makes me feel very uncomfortable, that's for sure," Nora said quietly. "But...you don't mean he's part of the whole Chesapeake Ripper copycat thing, do you? I've heard people talking about it all over town."

"Yes. I won't go into detail, but yes."

Nora paled. She felt as though her stomach dropped through the floorboards. This was public knowledge, sure, but why hadn't Alana said anything? Was it because she was his friend? Was he innocent? Why, then, was he still being held? And wasn't this house found full of evidence? She vaguely remembered people talking about the human fishing baits, the ear in the sink...

"This is a thousand levels of wrong," she mumbled, her eyes darting to the sink built into the island. "Am I infringing on something? Am I not supposed to be here?"

"No, the house is clean. You're quite welcome here, I'm certain Will would appreciate you taking such care of his dogs," Hannibal told her. He motioned to the now-boiling pot on the stove.

She yanked the pot from the stove, catching herself before she put it in the sink to cool out of habit. Her mind reeled and she fumbled with mugs and her tea infuser, scattering little bits of tea leaves over the counter.

"I'm sorry if I've upset you," he tried, and for a moment she felt as if he was being genuine. He rounded the island and took the tea infuser from her gently, pulling the mugs and tin of loose tea toward him. Obviously, he'd done this before, and she was a little thankful as her shaking hands were failing her. "I didn't feel that it was fair that Alana left you in such a position. Had anyone else come by other than myself, you could have been in quite a situation."

She watched him silently as he poured the hot water into the mugs, careful and measured. She'd never managed to do it straight from the pan, always making a mess, but he seemed very familiar with a kitchen. This kitchen in particular.

All of him, head to toe, was ever so neatly put together. His hair, parted sharply to the side, not a single strand out of place. Not a single blemish on his skin that she could find. Even the way he spoke was calculated and proper almost to the point of being impersonal.

She was drawn to the physical heat of him by her side; he radiated warmth like the sun on a hot summer day. Chiding herself internally, she moved away from him a bit, attempting to look interested in anything but him. Somehow she figured that he was vaguely aware of her observing him.

He turned suddenly, reaching for a jar of sugar on the counter near the stove, but she stopped him.

"I don't put anything in mine. Unless you do," she blurted. "It's already sweet on its own."

Another faint but pleasant smile crossed his face, and this time she picked up what felt like a hint of amusement.

"You have good taste," he told her, instead retrieving a saucer. It didn't quite match the mug, but he seemed fairly adamant that it be served this way. This was her idea anyway, why was she letting him do all the work?

"I like to think I do. I know darjeeling is a little hyped and cliche at the moment but it's honestly worth it."

"I'm quite fond of souchong, myself, but I would never turn down hot tea."

That piqued her interest. "Lapsang souchong? It's not my favorite and it's expensive but I honestly wish I had some right now," she told him, clutching her cup tightly to feel the warmth. Her fingers were freezing. "It's so smoky. It smells like cinnamon but it tastes..."

"Floral," he finished. "Floral with a hint of white pepper."

"Yes! I really feel like I would like it better when it's cold outside. I tasted it during the summer and it was kind of out of place."

She finally let herself smile, the twist in her stomach relaxing. Maybe he wasn't so bad. Anyone who could talk tea with her couldn't be terrible. Besides, he was a psych doctor. It was his job to analyze people and not be friends, to be off-putting. His expression was something between interest and friendliness and she wasn't sure what, but it didn't feel so...unnerving anymore.

He glanced at his watch, then peered around to glance outside almost nervously.

"I'll need to be going soon," he said, tentatively taking a sip of tea. The ceramic mug looked completely out of place in his hands; she imagined he usually drank from some sort of sophisticated set of china. "The snow makes my drive quite difficult. Will you be comfortable here?"

She sighed heavily, meandering back toward the living room and the heat of the fireplace. Not after what he told her, no, but she wasn't going to tell him that.

"I guess," she answered finally. The dogs were piled around the fireplace as well, sleeping peacefully. "I have Alana, and I can get a ride back to my house if I need it. Hopefully I won't be here much longer."

"What about your job?"

"It's off season. The owner is old and they know I like to take little side jobs like this, it's always been a deal of ours."

"Like a cat. You come and go as you please. If only my profession was that simple," he chuckled, staring down at his tea almost wistfully. There was a human under there, she noted, watching him perch rather gracefully on the ottoman of her chair. "How long have you been here?"

"3, maybe 4 days now? It is a little isolated. I talk to Alana sometimes but I kind of like being away from the city. The house is honestly a little spooky at night though. But I did go to the general store down the road, they seem pretty nice and they liked Will a lot so I'm not completely alone out here."

"Would you mind if I came back to check on you? That is, if you're still here over the next few days."

She balked at his question. It stirred a wild mixture of emotions and feelings in her and she almost couldn't answer. There was a sincerity to his voice that she wanted to cling to, but she also didn't know him at all and questioned her initial impression of him.

"I think I would like that," she said, too quickly, before she had really decided. Oh well.

"I would feel incredibly inconsiderate if I didn't at least offer. You're doing quite a favor in an unfamiliar environment. The least I can do is offer company."

God, she thought, the way he speaks. Like a top hat and cane sort of gentleman. The accent didn't help. What even was it? Scandinavian? Slavic?

"And you're quite welcome to call my office if you need anything," he continued, producing a card seemingly out of nowhere. "I wish I could thank you, on behalf of Will."

"Oh, it's no big deal," she tried, but he shook his head.

"Alana and I will make it up to you, maybe in our own ways, but know that you're very appreciated."

He took one last sip of tea before standing and picking up his pea coat, and she quickly moved to take his empty cup so he could put it on and button it.

"I'd like to talk to you again, at the very least," he told her, and for the first time in her entire life, she felt a blush sting her cheeks. 34 and acting like a schoolgirl, she shamed herself. "You seem to be quite interesting, Ms...?"

"Wright. Eleanora Wright. But please call me Nora," she bumbled, suddenly tongue-tied.

"Nora," he repeated, tucking his scarf in snugly. He started for the door, pausing to give her a ridiculously charming smile. "Thank you for the tea. And for helping my dear friend."

"It's no problem at all. Just be careful in the snow!" she called after him as he plodded through the ever-thickening layer of white powder.

But as she shut the door, she thunked her head against it almost angrily. "What the fuck was that?" she asked herself out loud after she was sure he was gone. "What the actual fuck was that?"

The dogs were looking at her expectantly from the floor, as if she needed to explain herself to them.

"What? You guys are the ones that just let him in," she told them, throwing herself dramatically down in her chair. "He could have killed me and you guys would have just licked him all day long. Some guard dogs you are."

She had to call Alana.


	4. Chapter 4

Another day passed, slowly. Nora had called Alana numerous times that morning but it all went straight to her voicemail; she had to be busy.

She decided she'd check out this "lunch" Mike had mentioned. She doubted there was anything she could eat, but after having seen that they had Oreos, she couldn't talk herself out of the chilly walk to the grove. Plus the dogs were restless.

But she was pleasantly surprised. The crowd he'd talked about was more like 3 or 4 people, a few old men and what looked like one of their granddaughters. They all greeted her as if she belonged there and had no problem offering her a place to sit among them.

The food was also shockingly mostly vegetables. Creamed corn, potatoes, lots of pies and sweets that they assured her were good for her to eat. What wasn't vegetables was simply fish that she figured the locals brought in on their own. All of it was fresh and hot and she was more than happy with it, even if it wasn't her usual choice.

They talked to her freely about where she was from and what she was doing there but never seemed displeased with her answers. None of them seemed suspicious of her despite her appearance; usually at least one person had to remark on her long dark hair or her too-pale skin and faded tattoos, few though they were.

She felt more welcome here than she had anywhere for quite a long time.

Eventually, though, she decided to make her trek back to the house with a box of Oreos and another sack of scraps Mike insisted on giving her. She kind of liked the routine of walking back to the house and feeding the dogs as she went, especially now that it wasn't snowing and there was a slight bit of sun out.

It was a beautiful area, she admitted to herself. When it wasn't overcast and gloomy, the place really shined. There were little creeks here and there, all tied together somehow she figured. The woods were dense even in their resting phase with no leaves. And the clearing just before the house was bright and open and sort of inviting in the right light.

Just as she reached the house, her phone rang.

"Finally," she groaned, noticing it was Alana. "Hello?"

"Hey! Sorry I didn't get you this morning. I was in a...meeting. Hannibal said he came by last night?" Alana asked, almost defensively.

"Yeah, that was actually what I was calling you about," Nora told her, settling onto a front porch step with Winston. "I had no idea anybody else was looking after the place, he kind of spooked me."

"I didn't know he was either. I guess he just wanted to check on everything, he's really concerned about Will."

"Also. I know about that."

Alana huffed, the sound like static on a radio. "Of course. Look...I didn't want to say anything because I felt like it wasn't really my place to say in the first place."

"But he's been on the news?"

"Yes, but...I need you to understand that none of us want to think he's the copycat-"

"Buuuuuut you should have told me, if anybody came up here to investigate and didn't know what I was doing I could have gotten like fined for trespassing or arrested or something."

"The right people know you're there. You're fine. I also didn't want to scare you off of it."

"Ah ha. I figured. You're going to owe me so hard when this blows over," Nora muttered. "Seriously. Do you know how weird this is? I'm like on a crime scene!"

"You are not on a crime scene, okay? If I thought it was dangerous I wouldn't have asked for your help. Besides. Nobody was actually murdered there or anything."

"No, but let's not forget the 'evidence'. You're a psychology professor, Alana, you know better than to lie to me."

"I omitted information to save face and win you over, you got me, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I just...I don't know. I didn't know how to ask you without it sounding all wrong. I'm so caught up in this case because I just...don't believe it's him," Alana admitted, the tone in her voice shifting darkly. "It can't be him. It adds up and it doesn't at the same time."

"So you're working on his case? I take it you're the one handling all the psychoanalyzing voodoo?"

"I am, because one, he is a great, wonderful person who should not have been overexerted in the way he was, and two, he is my friend and I have a hard time believing he did any of this. It's just not in him. And today I-...you know, I really shouldn't talk about this until it airs out. I could get us both in trouble."

Nora sighed, knowing she wouldn't get any more out of her. "Okay, then tell me how Dr. Lecter is tied up in all of this," she said, a little more demanding than she meant to sound.

"Hannibal? He was Will's psychiatrist. Therapist too, in a way. Will went to him a number of times and initially they worked together with the FBI. They bounce off each other for advice a lot, and I think Hannibal is really invested in Will as a person at this point. He's a good man. Both of them are, really, we just have to sort all this out. And he's also helping me with the case."

"And you never told me this because...?"

"Usual confidentiality rules, but at this point he's probably told you too much and I don't care anymore because I really need just a friend right now and all of mine are preoccupied with this...clusterfuck," Alana answered, exasperated. Her tone was so unusually casual, so unlike her normal self and Nora could hear the tiredness in her voice. "I'm really sorry, Nora. I wish I could tell you literally everything. I want to tell you. It's not that I don't trust you."

"I know. You've told me how much of a pain the FBI is. Just don't drop a bomb on me like that," Nora told her. "Well, you didn't, Hannibal did, but you get my point. Also. Is he like some sort of richy rich? Is he nice?"

She was surprised to hear Alana giggle at her. "Oh boy. He's his own creature. He's miles above any of us, he's so smart. But yes, he really likes to live lavishly. You know he's a chef? He cooks for us all the time. You wouldn't believe his house and the dinner parties."

"I knew he was! He knew too much about my tea. He also said he'd check on me if I had to stay here any longer."

"He's very polite. Like almost to a fault. If anything, I'd feel better knowing he was looking out for me like that," Alana told her. "He's a good man. He was also my teacher at one point."

"Is he that much older than us?"

"Not at all. Maybe 5 or 6 years. But seriously. Let him take care of you, he'll make you feel like a billionaire. It's nice sometimes."

Nora chewed her lip thoughtfully. She was a person of simple tastes but she had to admit it was nice to be pampered once in a while. And if he was showing the kind of interest in her that she thought she recognized, she could only imagine the kind of treatment she'd get from him. But she was getting too far ahead of herself. He still made her uneasy and she hadn't forgotten that.

"Maybe I'll give him a call," she said, and Alana gasped.

"Tell me he did not give you his number."

"He gave me a card?"

"Oh, damn. That means one of a few things. Either he wants to pick your brain, have you over for dinner to show off, or he's interested in you. Call him. He could use a friend just like I could right now."

* * *

Nora agonized over the card sitting on the ottoman. It was getting dark outside now and she was restless but unsure of what to do to sate her anxiety. She read his number over and over, running over the conversation in her head. Was it too soon to call him? What would he say? Why did he want her to call? Or did he?

The dogs were fighting over a rope toy in the floor, adding to the muddled confusion in her brain. Should she really get tied up with all of these FBI people? It wasn't like she had anything to hide, but it could make her a potential target, and that terrified her. After all, supposedly the Ripper was still out there. Graham was just the Copycat.

And then she couldn't stop running with that thought. What if the Ripper found her out there, alone in the country?

She groaned, tossing herself onto the chair, dialing his number disdainfully. If she didn't talk to at least someone, she wouldn't sleep that night.

It seemed as though he answered on the first ring, startling her.

"Dr. Lecter?" she asked timidly. "It's-"

"Nora! I was wondering about you. How are you feeling?"

Of course he would ask that. Psych people, she grumbled.

"Better. Alana told me some more today. About what's going on with Will Graham. I'm over that, I just don't like being alone in this house," she spilled, unable to filter her words. It was like his voice was a truth serum.

"It is a lonely house. I'd never be able to live there, myself. What made you decide on calling me instead of Alana?" he asked, and though the question seemed innocent on the front, she felt that it was loaded somehow.

"I've bothered her enough. I...you did say you'd like for me to call you."

"I did. I meant it. Maybe just to keep you company in a way, but I'd also like to ask you more about your knowledge of plants. I saw your book in the den about alcohol and botany."

She'd read too far into it, she told herself. He just wanted another brain to comb over. But she was more than happy to oblige him and they launched into a lengthy discussion about everything from agave to grapes to potatoes to wheat. Some things he already knew; others, it seemed he wanted her opinion on. And she was okay with that. Speaking with him was comfortable, never strained, and she felt she could be as detailed as she want and it would never go over his head.

She admitted to him after discussing almost the whole book that she wasn't much of a drinker, that she really just preferred wine, and he seemed content with that, remarking that her taste in wine must be superb if her taste in tea was any comparison.

That only lead to another hours-long discourse on wine and tea and the processes involved in each. She told him of her love for drying her own flowers and herbs to make her own floral tea. This delighted him. A lost art, he called it. He praised her for being able to grow and produce what he imagined was something much more impressive than it was, but she beamed nonetheless. It was nice to find someone so interested in her hobbies that she always thought were mundane.

"What variety of herbs do you grow? Do you winter them?" he asked, curiosity in his voice. "And vegetables? I know that only winter are in season now but an indoor garden would be quite impressive."

"I have a window box full of herbs in my kitchen. Pineapple mint, tarragon, parsley, rosemary, some generics and a couple of special ones. Basil, sage, that kind of thing. And I do have a room with grow lights but right now all I have is winter vegetables like lettuce and spinach. Greens. Would you like some? Alana said you were a chef," she answered, listening carefully for his answer. Any interest he showed was becoming a sort of addiction for her.

"I would love that. I fancy myself a chef of sorts. Anything I can source locally makes my dishes feel a little more special. Tell me, are you a picky eater?"

"Not really. But I am a vegetarian."

He hummed thoughtfully, almost disappointed. "Maybe I can work with that," he mused. "What is it that turned you to vegetarianism?"

"Factory farming. It's a long story. I mean...I'm kind of open to trying things at least once, as long as I feel like it was acquired ethically," she said, but that didn't feel true. She hated the idea of eating animals. Why was she sucking up to him?

"An open mind. I like that. Will you be there tomorrow?"

"As far as I know."

He paused, and she could imagine him reflecting over his words as he had the night before. "Would you be averse to me cooking for you?" he asked finally, and her heart fluttered nervously in her chest. So many conflicting emotions washed over her, but her hammering heart was the loudest opinion.

"I would really like that," she told him. She could feel the flush on her face stinging her cheeks. "If that's okay with you."

"I love to cook for others. And if I can make you feel any more welcome during your stay, I'll do my best to make it so," he crooned, and her heart nearly jumped into her throat.

Christ, she thought. This man was more than she bargained for. Again, she thought maybe she was reading too far into it, but the way he spoke to her alluded more; the cold walls were down and he seemed so genuinely interested in her. His voice had taken such a velvety, seductive tone. She couldn't be hallucinating that.

When she didn't answer, caught up in fawning over him, he chuckled.

"I'll be there at 7 tomorrow," he told her. "You realize we've been talking for over 3 hours now?"

She gasped, pulling her phone back to look at the call time. 3 hours, 27 minutes. It was well past what she imagined was his bed time.

"I am so sorry!" she said breathlessly. "I didn't realize. You probably have to get up early in the morning!"

"No, actually, I don't have a patient until 10am. It's certainly not your fault, I was enjoying the conversations. You're a very bright woman, Nora."

She let herself smile then, inspecting her nails as if she had to start getting ready right then. She knew she would be preparing all day for him.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I don't know what to say."

"No need to say anything. Sometimes it's fine to just take compliments as they come. Anyway, I do need to rest. Good night, Nora."

She was reluctant to say it, but she echoed his good night, waiting until she heard the line go dead before she ended the call.


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing could occupy Nora's mind.

She paced endlessly, struggling to read or watch something, even making a trip for lunch at the store. Mike called her out on her anxious behavior, immediately noticing her tapping foot beneath the table.

"You got a hot date or somethin'?" he joked, but Nora thought to herself that he wasn't far from the target.

"Not really. One of Will's friends is visiting and I'm just...not good at socializing," she covered. "He wanted to thank me for taking care of everything."

"Huh. That's awfully nice of him. We're all worried about Will, to be honest."

She wasn't sure if they knew where he was or why, so she simply nodded and swirled her coffee around nervously.

"It sounds like he's okay," she tried, but Mike shrugged.

"We know what's going on. It's on the news. None of us believe it," he told her. The other two men at the table nodded. "Not a single one of us. A boy like that don't have it in his heart to do the things they're accusing him of."

"I...I'm not sure. I don't really know enough about it to form an opinion."

"His friend will be able to tell you. Is it the doctor? That rich guy he hangs out with?"

"Yeah, actually. Dr. Lecter."

Mike chuckled, snubbing out his cigarette just to light another.

"That guy's a weird one. I've seen him a couple of times," one of the other men said quietly.

"Yeah, he's...different. Don't know what it is about him, don't know what Will sees in him. His toilet paper's probably made out of hundred dollar bills."

Nora snorted, biting her lip to keep a straight face.

"That part, I wouldn't doubt," she agreed. "He kind of...oozes that luxury life."

"I thought he was right handsome," Janey called from the counter, her voice tiny and mousy, exactly how Nora expected. That was the first thing she'd heard her say.

"Aw hush, you saw him at a distance," Mike told her. "Anyway. You get spooked, c'mon down here, okay?"

* * *

After hours of deliberating, Nora had finally settled on an outfit. She wasn't sure exactly what kind of occasion this was, but if the way he was dressed before was any indication, she had to at least look presentable.

She decided at last on an oversized dark emerald sweater, one with a neck so wide that it barely clung to her shoulders. With it, the nicest pair of black jeans she owned. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror for minutes at a time, deliberating, wondering what to go with it, but she hadn't really packed anything else. She even went so far as to haul a kitchen chair into the bathroom so she could stand on it and look at her jeans closely, wondering if the skinny cut made her look as frail as she thought they did.

Of course they did, she mumbled. She'd been insecure about her fragility for as long as she could remember and had only in her late 20s decided that it wasn't worth actively worrying about. The passive-aggressive "you should eat more" and "men like women with meat on their bones" comments failed to phase her, but her own mind got the better of her regularly.

She rarely even pursued men anyway, she'd always told herself. Women were softer and more understanding and so gentle. Who cared if men wanted "real women"?

Sighing, she piled her long hair up in a messy bun. It was so long and heavy that intricate hairstyles never really worked, it always slid out and fell faster than she could bobby pin it back up. But then she realized, with a flash of embarrassment, that he would be able to see the tattoo on the back of her neck.

"Shit," she breathed. He couldn't be the type to appreciate old and vaguely-spiritual tattoos. The small ones on her hands and wrists were easily covered by jewelry and sleeves. But he'd probably already seen the ones on her hands if he'd paid any attention to her, and she was sure he did.

But then the doorbell was ringing and she panicked, slipping her favorite rings on quickly just in case, fumbling with the clasp of her favorite necklace. For a moment, she didn't feel it against her chest after she clasped it and she panicked, but the cool mother of pearl was thankfully still there, set in silver to look like a set of dangling moth wings.

She shushed the dogs, ushering them back toward their beds around the fire place. "Coming!" she called, cursing when her voice wavered noticeably.

The door opened before she could reach it. Hannibal peered inside, greeting her with a smile that she felt was quite different from the last time. Excited, maybe. Intrigued.

"It's just me, no need to worry," he told her. He had with him a small hand-carry cooler and what looked like an upscale copper pan; of course he couldn't cook with the modest equipment in the house. "I hope you have been comfortable. It's been sunny but I fear the cold is only recouping for another storm."

"The fireplace is actually pretty efficient. I just hate going out to get the wood from the barn. It feels like I have to walk 3 miles back and forth. But hopefully I'll be back home soon," she said, offering to take the pan from him and help carry it.

"Do you live near here?"

"Baltimore, actually. East Baltimore. Not too far from the university."

"Ah, some of my old haunts." He placed the cooler on the kitchen counter rather delicately. "I need one more thing. I'll be right back."

He disappeared out into the snow once more, rooting around in his still-unidentified luxury car (she had no clue what it was but she could only imagine it cost 6 figures at the least) before producing what looked from a distance like a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. She was right.

"Tea for later. I think you'll appreciate this with dinner," he said, almost cheerfully. He was excited about cooking, maybe? She still struggled to read him.

"Sauvignon Blanc?" she asked timidly.

"Of sorts. Quite a guess. You know your pairings, if you're assuming I'm making you just a salad."

"Well, I'd think you're not the house salad kind of man. So it's not a Grigio. No meat, because you know I'm a vegetarian, so no Cabernet, no smoky or dry wines. You seem to like local fare, and there's no winter fruit in season, but people import favorites like raspberries, blackberries, blueberries... Avocados are in, which also pair-"

"You are so, so close," he chuckled. "And I'm quite impressed. Is it your knowledge of flora or your culinary tastes that keep you so informed?"

She shrugged, looking away from him to keep from blushing. "I like to read. I read everything I can get my hands on."

He poured her a generous taste in a glass whose stem looked thin enough for a soft breeze to snap it, but she noted that the wine was red, not white as she expected.

"I admire that." He swirled the glass gently beneath her nose. It smelled so bright, so floral, so vivid.

"Roses," she said softly. "Roses, raspberries? Peaches? Violets?"

"Maybe not peaches, but again I'm quite impressed. Taste it."

She took the glass from him carefully, eager to try it after it produced such a pleasing bouquet. It was absolutely everything she anticipated and more, like liquid velvet, and she had to remind herself rather firmly that tossing the glass back was not polite in the least. But she couldn't believe such a flavor in a red wine.

"It's a Beaujolais," he informed her. "More accurately, a Fleurie Beaujolais. It's a high altitude vinyard on the slopes of La Monde, in France."

"I've never heard of it, but it's...amazing. Honestly."

"I know," he said simply, his eyes glittering at her mischievously.

He unpacked wordlessly, laying out his so carefully selected ingredients as if they were specimens. Raspberries. Pomegranate halves. Unrefined sugar, avocado, greens of all sorts. Small covered dishes of herbs she figured he'd ground himself. Maybe poppy seeds? He placed something in the freezer, placing what looked like short martini glasses beside it on the counter as a reminder.

"Do you mind if I watch you?" she asked, eying everything carefully. How he'd fit it all in the cooler, she had no idea.

"I'd enjoy that, actually. Would you like to help?"

"Yes! I'm not really good at it, but-"

"There's always time to learn," he said smoothly, at last pulling a small folded knife set from the bottom of the cooler. "Let me slip out of this coat, though. It's quite warm already."

* * *

There was no end to Hannibal's knowledge, and he never danced around questions. He made short work of a salad base, sighing softly when he peered inside the cabinet to find bowls that apparently were sub standard. Nonetheless, he filled them to the brim, starting heat for his pan.

He gave her small tasks. She diligently followed his orders, listening to his advice as she went. Taste everything, he told her. Check the freshness, check the fullness of the flavor. There was a sensuality in the way he worked, in the familiarity of his hands and the way he spoke, as if food was his only way of expressing his affections.

The pan, she learned, was for a sauce. He launched into an exposé about the different kinds of sauces, the different textures, what went with what. Why he chose what he did. And she couldn't help but listen. His voice was velvety like the wine he'd so carefully chosen.

"I have such a soft spot for raspberries," he mused, placing a handful in a mesh strainer as she peered around his shoulder. "I simply love the flavor. And the leaves, in tea. This particular cultivar is not native here, I had to ask around for it, but it is well worth the effort. Try it."

Before she could react, it was at her lips. It seemed an innocent action but there was a frisson of...something that shimmered over her body as he placed it in her mouth. She couldn't place the feeling, again, pushing a nagging feeling of caution out of the back of her mind. But the flavor was enough to distract her.

"Jesus," she breathed, lamenting that she'd swallowed it. "How do you find these things?"

"I suppose you would call it 'picky' but to me, it's more of a...dedication. I want to find the best in everything. The best wine. The best cut of meat." He pressed the raspberries through the strainer with a spoon, letting the juice run out into the pan with a sizzle. "I never want to stop improving. What I am making for you now, I consider quite simple, mainly because I am unfamiliar with your tastes and in an unusual environment. I have no means to make it visually impressive, so the most that I can hope for is that I win you over with quality ingredients and flavors you have never tasted. With luck, you will come back for more."

She raised her eyebrows at him then, though he wasn't looking at her. He was focused intently on his pan.

Eventually, he had her seated at the kitchen table. He presented her with what he considered a modest dinner, definitely on the lighter side, but she preferred small meals later in the night. She recognized everything he'd put into it but the raspberry pomegranate drizzle he'd worked so hard on made her mouth water at the thought of it.

She realized how quickly she was eating when he questioned if she really liked it that much; it was teasing, but again she had to remind herself to be a little more mannerly. The wine was almost like he'd made it himself to go with his creation and before she knew it she was quite buzzed and slightly embarrassed about it.

He soaked up her praise like a dry sponge. Each compliment had him beaming back at her, and eventually she struggled to articulate anything other than variations on how delicious it was or how amazing it all fit together. A salad. A dumb salad and a bottle of fancy wine had her reeling.

"Are you overly fond of sweets?" he asked, clearing the table as she mulled over what she'd just eaten.

"Not really? I like certain things, like pastries and dark chocolate," she answered. "Why?"

"Good. I brought desert. It's something that I made beforehand but I think you'll like it."

He tinkered for a moment at the freezer before he presented the short glasses from earlier, filled with perfect curls of what looked like a kind of ice cream.

"Bittersweet chocolate sorbet, with a hint of raspberry. Nothing too sweet," he said warmly. "Why don't we enjoy it closer to the fire?"

"I...sure. That sounds perfect," she murmured, taken aback by his thoughtfulness.

Standing was a feat. Her buzz sent her head spinning and she paused for a moment to gain her bearings before ushering the dogs to their food bowls in the kitchen so that they could have the den for themselves.

"Is your nose a giveaway for your alcohol levels?" he teased, steadying her gently. "Because it's very pink. I take it you enjoyed the wine."

"Is it that bad? My nose always turns pink."

He guided her to the couch, sitting so that they faced each other with their knees brushing and bridging the gap between their bodies. She fumbled for words, instead focusing on the sorbet, which was just as luxurious as she imagined. Of course it was. His blood was probably molten gold and silver; that had to be why his body was so searing hot to the touch.

Her mind strayed then and she struggled to right it, fighting the effects of the alcohol rather fruitlessly. Blush tinged her cheeks when she caught his gaze.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, his hand brushing across her knee.

There was that heat. Like he was made of embers.

"I...I guess I went a little too hard on the wine," she tried, her eyes flickering back and forth between her sorbet and his expectant face.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't get carried away myself."

The way the firelight flickered across his face was startling. Harsh, even. She could see how prominent his cheekbones were, how nearly gaunt his face was. It wasn't unpleasant, but there were moments when she caught that unsettling skeletal outline that she'd seen the first time in the porch light.

She couldn't lie to herself. There was something about him, something hidden, that she ached to learn. The unease had blossomed into a curiosity that bordered on obsessive at this point, blurred with this new feeling of lust that she attributed to the wine. What made him tick? What was behind those gloomy hazel - no, maroon - glittering eyes? There was a mechanical quality to him, as if he'd had to learn how to be expressive in any way. Like this was some sort of suit he slipped on before he went outside. It didn't feel fake, but it didn't feel...normal.

She had to know more.

"Why are you doing all of this for me?" she asked after she'd finished her sorbet. He took the glass from her, placing it on the end table next to the sofa. "What's your angle?"

"My 'angle' is quite simple at this point. Though I must say, you changed it quite drastically."

"How did I do that?" She pulled her legs up onto the couch, anxiously letting her thumb slide over the pearl moth wing that hung just at her cleavage.

"By being unusual."

She sighed heavily. She'd heard that one before.

"No, not as you think," he corrected. "You showed quite a fearless attitude when you found me here the first time. Which is admirable. I could have easily been here to hurt you but you showed no sign of backing down. Which I like. You seemed to be well spoken and you've reiterated that you're quite intelligent several times now. I initially wanted to just...speak, at length, with you but..."

"You just wanted to pick my brain," she laughed.

"In a way, yes, but when you called me and we spoke for so long so easily I really came to admire you."

Again, she blushed, the bloodrush stinging her cheeks.

He noticed that she'd taken to picking at threads on her sweater and he pulled them away carefully, much to her surprise, leaning toward her to investigate. He twisted her rings curiously, looking at the stones, tracing the tiny ink symbols on her knuckles she had been trying to cover up.

"Are you a pagan?" he asked cautiously. "These are old alchemical symbols, correct?"

"No to the pagan, yes to the symbols. I used to be," she stammered, struggling to even breathe at this point. How long had it been since she'd even been this close to someone?

He thumbed over her knuckles, tentatively pushing the very edge of her sleeve up to reveal yet another tattoo.

"An Icelandic stave? You are full of secrets," he murmured. "The compass. To guide one home if lost in a storm or at sea."

"How did you know that?"

"I like to read, too," he teased. "What made you change your mind?"

She struggled to come up with an answer that didn't frame her in a terrible light.

"I was a rebellious young adult," she started, chewing her lip thoughtfully when his hands closed around hers. "I was raised a very strict Christian, so when I got out of the house I kind of went wild. I went to Wiccan covens, I partied with Norse heathens..."

"Do you regret it?"

"Not at all! I just wish I'd been a little more thoughtful about the permanent part of it... People legitimately think I'm going to hex them because see symbols they don't recognize but that's all they see of me-"

"But you are exquisite," he interjected.

"I...? Thank you," she fumbled, and she could feel even her neck flush now. "Nobody has ever used that particular word."

"Well then let me be the first. You are, Nora."

She gaped at him wordlessly. He tugged her glasses off tentatively, and though it left him in a haze, she could still see the shimmer in his eyes.

"Look at you. It is a shame not a single person has ever called you exquisite. Forgive me for being forward, but I felt you needed to hear that. I mean it."

"Doctor Lecter-"

"Let me indulge you," he said, softly, his hands tightening around hers. "Please."

"...and how do you intend to do that?"

"Every way I know how. But...let's start small. I want to know more about you, as a person."

* * *

A cold wet nose punched the back of Nora's hand and she gasped, blinking wearily. Her eyes felt as if they had been glued shut and her head immediately took to pounding when she got the first glimpse of morning light. Her neck and shoulder ached, and her arm was completely numb. Not to mention she felt as if she'd been sleeping on an electric blanket the entire night.

Her skin burned almost unpleasantly and she struggled to adjust and lift her head, finding her elbow trapped and nearly buried in the back of the couch between the cushions and her own body. The movement, however, disturbed her perch as well.

The couch shifted beneath her and she realized she was more or less sleeping on Hannibal. Mostly his side, but she could see a flat spot in his stark white shirt where her face had been mashed into his ribs, her arm draped over his stomach. Her chest tightened as her eyes swept over him, so gracefully reclined in a nest of pillows against the arm of the couch like a god in repose.

She vaguely remembered how she ended up this way. They'd talked deep into the morning hours, the wine glasses making a second appearance, and after a certain point Nora's memory became hazy much like her vision. She remembered drawing closer and closer to him; a moth to flame, his arm over the back of the couch invitingly. Closer and closer until she was tucked into his side, giggling like a drunk college freshman.

Carefully, she picked her head up a little farther, searching for any sign of her glasses, but she noticed they were behind him on the end table. No way to get them without disturbing him.

What time even was it? Did he have patients? Where was her phone? Questions flooded her mind and she tried to calm herself, carefully extricating her arm from the back of the couch, but then his maroon-colored eyes were blinking up at her and she was butter all over again.

"Nora," he murmured, almost affectionately, as if he just wanted to hear her name.

"What day is it? Do you have patients? I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

He pushed her hair behind her ear carefully, cutting her off before she could worry any further.

"It's Saturday. I haven't scheduled anyone. But I hadn't intended to sleep here, either," he said, pushing up onto his elbows as she untangled from his side. "I hope I haven't crossed any boundaries."

"No, not at all! I just don't really...I'm really bad at these kinds of situations," she blurted.

He chuckled at her nervousness, straightening his hair carefully before sitting up beside her. She balked a little at his closeness, unsure of how to behave, but his composure was at least a little comforting.

"That's quite alright. I do have at least some work to do, so I should be heading out soon, but I'd like to make sure you're alright first. You look quite pale."

"I'm probably hungover," she admitted, squinting at the windows ruefully. "I really can't hold my liquor anymore."

"That would do it. I'll clean up; you rest."

He made short work of anything that had been left out in the kitchen and before she could gain her bearings it was all packed away and cleaned exactly as it had been before; everything went back in his cooler neatly and he made it seem as if he'd never even been there.

She was almost sad to see him go and her heart twisted slightly when he shrugged his pea coat back on.

"I expect to hear from you, Nora," he said lowly, his usual velvety voice barely a rumble. She shivered at the sound, her fingers curling around his instinctively as he took her hands once more. "I want to see you again."

A faint bravado stirred in her and she cocked her head at him as he had done to her, eying his reaction. "You might," she tried, but it never phased him.

He kissed her knuckles, her heart fluttering wildly now.

"I will," he corrected, and before she could form a response he was gone, nothing but a low crunch of gravel and snow in the distance.


	6. Chapter 6

The weekend passed quickly after that. Alana called her to let her know she'd be able to take care of everything again so Nora said her goodbyes to the dogs and packed up, almost a little sad to go back to the city at this point. She made sure to swing by and tell Mike and Janey goodbye before her ride came to take her home.

But, she had to admit, it was a relief to be home. Everything was in perfect place as she had left it, everything green and happy and welcoming, the scent of loamy soil and tea filling her senses.

Her stone cottage-style house was exactly something imagined from a fairly tale. Filled to the brim with every plant imaginable and a rather bohemian collection of colorful furniture, bright glass lamps hanging from the ceiling in any place a plant did not. Tapestries, already colorful, illuminated by a custom stained glass window that overlooked her cozy den.

She settled in for the evening, curled under a large quilt with her book she'd been fighting to finish since she'd been staying in Wolf Trap. Hannibal's card fluttered out of the book when she opened it and she smiled to herself, wondering if she should call him, but it was getting late. He'd be up early in the morning.

Alana, however, was still up and when Nora's phone rang it startled her a little too much.

"You need to tell me what you've done to Hannibal," she said quickly as soon as Nora had answered.

"No hello? Christ, is it that bad?"

"No. I just need to know. I saw him early yesterday afternoon after he didn't answer his phone all morning and he's so...different? For such a morbidly cold man he's awfully cheery. Talking about dinner parties with friends and 'someone he'd like for us to meet'," Alana said suspiciously. "He said he made a new friend? All this while his best friend is still incarcerated in a high security mental facility? Hmmm?"

Nora sighed, struggling to form an explanation that didn't sound as ridiculous as the situation actually was.

"I called him, after he left me his card," she started, and Alana mmhmm'd on the other end. "And we talked...a lot."

"As in for like 30 minutes a lot or what? I know you hate phones."

"Like...3 hours a lot."

Alana made a quiet noise like a gasp. Nora could almost picture her blue eyes wide with shock.

"And then he asked me if he could make dinner for me. So...he came over and made dinner," Nora finished, the words bumbling out of her mouth faster than she intended.

"Oh my god. That man never leaves his kitchen. What kind of love spell did you have to put on him to get him out of it?" Alana wheezed. "I've never seen him so absorbed in someone. Well, Will, but that's a different kind of relationship altogether... I... I'm honestly jealous. What did he make you?"

"Just a salad. He brought this really fancy wine and some sorbet that he said he made."

"It is never just a salad with him. You're avoiding it. I- wait. Is that why he...?"

"I did not sleep with him, if that's what you're asking," Nora blurted. "I'd like to think he's a little more classy than that anyway. He just stayed for a while. We talked until I fell asleep."

Alana huffed. Probably chewing her lips, Nora thought, she did that when she was thinking.

"It's just odd," she said finally, and Nora rolled her eyes. Of course it was. Nothing could be normal with her. "There must be something about you he really, really likes, because I've known him for years and the only romance I've ever seen was between him and his new set of copper pans. Do you like him?"

It was Nora's turn to think, but she already knew her answer. She just didn't want it to seem desperate.

"I do. And at the same time I don't really know what to think of him. He spooked me a little at first. It's weird, I can't really read him but he seems so brooding. Like he's always analyzing me. Or putting on some sort of face to impress me. I don't know. But I kind of like it. It makes me want to pursue him in a way."

"He has that effect on people," Alana murmured. Nora cringed at the disappointment she heard in her voice; suddenly she felt as if Alana were the one that Hannibal should have been doting on. "Just be aware that his line of work has been dangerous lately. Mine too, if I'm being honest. I told you way more than I should have and I'm scared that's going to come back and hurt you somehow."

"Alana, I'll be fine. Nobody knows who I am. Unless they traced his calls. And even then it's not like they know anything other than my name is Nora. That's it," she said reassuringly. "What would anyone want with a florist anyway?"

"You'd be surprised. Anyway. I'll talk to you later. I have some things I need to read up on. You should really watch the news every now and then."

"You know I hate the news-"

"Hey, Jack's calling me, I'll call you back later."

* * *

When Nora called Hannibal's office and he didn't answer the first time, she told herself it was just late, that maybe he was getting ready for bed or was already in bed. Or maybe whatever Alana was working on had him occupied as well.

She scolded herself for the little thread of jealousy that threatened to unravel in the back of her mind. Alana obviously had been interested in him, maybe only a little; if anything, Alana should be jealous. She didn't understand where the protectiveness came from, so she picked another book and dragged herself to bed.

I have work tomorrow, she told herself. Go to sleep, rest up, be ready to socialize again. Her nest of multicolored pillows and blankets called to her.

Her dreams had other ideas.

At first, they were hazy. Fuzzy, warm. She dreamt of the dogs, the fireplace. Vague outlines and shapes.

She dreamt of Hannibal, tucked into his side on the couch, how hot his skin had burned against her face even through his immaculately pressed white shirt. The store, a little hidden gem buried in snow and guarded by trees that were probably older than the 13 colonies.

Her dreams only became more and more vivid; she could see Alana bounding in the door of the flower shop. The tree line as she rode to Wolf Trap for the first time. Wood stacked neatly against the barn behind the house, wood that she hated picking up for firewood because there were always spiders behind it. The outline of the house in the twilight as she walked back from the store, the smell of cigarettes and black coffee and crisp snow.

The bouquet of his expensive wine. The feeling of his fingers brushing her lips, the taste of raspberries. Wine, staining the snow. No, blood. Nora tossed in her bed, tangled helplessly in her sheets, a soft shimmer of sweat on her neck and shoulders. Blood, the color of his eyes. Those sunless eyes.

Then, the yellow porch light. Snow drifting down ever so softly, dusting her shoulders, her hair damp. She saw his silhouette on the porch, yelling to him soundlessly, the only noise her feet crunching in the snow. There was only the house, the light, and him. All else was darkness. He turned, his hands in his pea coat, but she couldn't make out what he was saying. He was only a black shadow, striding silently toward the stairs, but then he passed beneath the porch light and out in front of it and Nora shot straight up in her bed, choking back a gasp.

As if she'd been standing there, the image was burned onto her retinas. She shook her head to try and dislodge it, her heart pounding, clutching her quilts to herself tightly.

She could not unsee the silhouette of a creature she had no word for; a sprawling, humanoid creature, adorned with the antlers of a stag, black as pitch in the shadow of the porch light.


	7. Chapter 7

Work was exactly as she expected it. Slow.

She was thankful considering she hadn't slept worth a damn, but it was also slow enough to let her mind wander and it made her anxious.

"How was the trip?"

Nora whirled, almost startled, earning a laugh she didn't quite appreciate from her boss.

"It was nice," she answered, a little more short than she meant to sound. "A little weird...but nicer than most places I've stayed."

"You look like you didn't sleep."

She shrugged, twisting back and forth on a bar stool at the counter aimlessly. Her black skirt fluttered back and forth with her. "I had bad dreams. I don't really know why, but they kept me up all night," she admitted. "It's not like me to have nightmares."

"I know. But hey. Somebody just called in an order, it's a Thinking of You bouquet. You wanna take it?" he asked, placing the order sheet in front of her on the counter. "C'mon. You look bored."

"I guess. Is it a delivery?"

"Said it's a pickup. For Bloom."

Nora's heart dropped. What could have happened? She thought about calling Alana, but maybe it wasn't her. There wasn't a call back number listed on the order.

"Dan, you forgot their number," she told him, but Dan shrugged.

"It's fine. If they don't come get it you know somebody will buy it. Oh, radio's out. I'll turn on the TV for noise."

He turned on the TV mounted behind the counter and disappeared, leaving Nora to her devices.

This piece took her quite a while. She struggled to put together something that really felt "sympathetic", drifting back and forth between white lilies and soft pink roses. It's not a sympathy bouquet, she told herself, nobody died. She hoped.

The TV didn't help. Of course it was the local news channel. Advertisements, senseless news, sports reports. It bounced around in the back of her head as she began shaping her wet foam, nearly smashing it down in the vase when an ad ran that was at least 20 decibels louder than the rest of the broadcast.

But then the news broadcast roared back to life and she realized they were cutting into live TV.

"Breaking news coming from the observatory, yet again," the reporter said grimly. Nora paused, giving the TV a wary glance. "Early this morning, well before sunrise, the FBI were called to the scene of a crime so horrific, we are not yet allowed to release any details."

That really caught her attention. She turned her full attention to it, twirling a lily between her fingers.

"Reports are that a former FBI crime scene investigator has been found under quite gruesome circumstances. Jack Crawford, head of the BSU, refused to release a statement as she was apparently one of his own. We'll bring you more on this story as the details are released."

She took a deep breath, trying to focus on her arrangement. None of that bode well when she thought about the things Alana and Hannibal had told her. And the Jack Alana had referred to had to be Jack Crawford. She'd heard that name before.

The order was picked up around lunch, confirming that it wasn't Alana. It was some random she'd never seen before and while that comforted her, it didn't really settle her nerves.

"I'm going to take my lunch, Dan," she called to the back, slipping her coat on. "I'm going to the noodle place. You want something?"

"Nah, I have my own today. But bring me a coke if you don't mind."

"Got i-"

As she turned to go out the door, she bashed into someone, stumbling back in shock. A warm hand steadied her, a little too familiarly, and maroon colored eyes met hers.

"Nora, are you alright?" Hannibal asked calmly, stepping into the shop to get out of the wind.

Flabbergasted, she gaped at him, struggling for words. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking!" she gasped, straightening her glasses, but he only smiled at her.

"That's quite alright. I thought I would bring you lunch," he told her, holding up what looked to be ceramic containers much like a bento box. "I apologize if it seems sudden, but I was planning on being in town today and Alana mentioned you worked here, so here I am. Have I caught you at a bad time?"

"No not at all! I actually was just headed out to get lunch but I...wow. That's...you're really on top of things," she stammered. "Come in, let's get out of the door at least."

He followed her up to the counter, pausing courteously at it when she dipped behind it.

"Hey, you can come back here. It'll be hard to eat up here," she assured him, and he nodded before following her to the back room.

She could imagine him musing at all the coolers and literal buckets of flowers. When she stole a glance at him over her shoulder, he was doing exactly that, his fingers skimming nearly everything he walked by. He had to analyze every single little thing.

"Impressive, huh?" she asked him, offering him a seat in a folding chair at the card table in their "break" area. It was really just one large room with a few counters, one with a microwave and mini fridge tucked into the corner.

Dan peered at her from the microwave, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Who's this?" he asked, eying Hannibal top to bottom. "Gotcha a suitor finally?"

She swatted at the old man playfully, sliding her coat off once again.

"This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter. He's a friend of mine," she said, but this time it was Hannibal who eyed her across the table. Oh no, she thought. Bad choice of words? Or was he just being coy?

"Well I've never met him. What kind of doctor are you?" Dan asked him.

Hannibal set to unpacking their lunch, uncovering his little ceramic bowls carefully. White rice, and a sectioned container full of something she didn't quite recognize.

"I'm a psychiatrist," Hannibal answered him simply, and to Nora's embarrassment, he pulled his chair around to the closer side of the card table so that they wouldn't be across from each other. "I have an office at my home."

"Well. Sounds nice. I'll go get a coke, then, since you're not headed to the noodle hut," Dan said to Nora, putting his dish back in the microwave. "You want anything?"

"See if they'll send us hot tea in a to go cup. They used to do it for me."

"Hot tea. Sure."

As soon as Dan was gone, Hannibal pushed one side of the split bowl toward her, handing her a spoon. "Saag Gosht," he told her, as if that meant something to her. She had no idea what that was. "It's a spinach curry. Generally made with lamb, but yours is tofu. I'm not sure how that will translate, flavor wise-"

"You made this for lunch?" she asked incredulously.

He cocked his head at her, concerned. "Yes? Is there something wrong?"

"No, not at all, it's just a complicated dish...that's a lot of effort."

"Not at all. I told you, I enjoy this."

Her heart fluttered deep in her chest and she tried not to blush at him, staring down into her dish. Whatever it was, it looked delicious.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"You're quite welcome."

They ate quietly, but it wasn't awkward. It was a pleasant silence; she enjoyed his presence even without words. And he seemed to enjoy hers. Dan came back at some point with a drink tray of tea, lukewarm now that he'd been out in the cold with it, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

When they were done, she gave him a "tour" of the shop, which was pretty much just "here's where the orders come in, and this is where I do arrangements", but he seemed amused. She ran out of things to show him and eventually resorted to explaining everything from wet foam to florist tape and the silk flower crimper.

He pulled a cut rose from her little workspace, tracing his fingers over the soft white-pink petals. She'd left it out earlier trying to do the Bloom arrangement.

"Come with me tonight," he started, quickly glancing around the store for customers or her boss before taking both of her hands, curling them around the stem of the rose. "Do you work tomorrow?"

"I work Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Saturdays when it's busy."

"Perfect. Then you won't mind if I pick you up from here after closing?"

Her face flushed and she stared down into the center of the rose, struggling so hard to keep her composure.

"Sure," she murmured, and his hands tightened around hers. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing special. But phone calls are so impersonal. I'd much rather speak face to face with you. When do you close?"

"At 5. Just in time for it to be dark outside."

"Then I will see you at 5," he concluded, brushing the back of his fingers over her wrist and up her forearm delicately.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Nora standing behind the counter dumbfounded and completely aghast. She wasn't dressed to go out with him. She looked like a cartoon witch bundled up for the cold. Hopefully he wasn't taking her anywhere public.

"He's got it bad for you," Dan said suddenly, making her jump for the second time. "Damn, you're skittish toady! But really. The way he looks at you...it's like he could just eat you alive."

"That's oddly specific, Dan."

"Well how else am I gonna explain it? He's intimidating."

"Sort of. In a weird way, I guess," she agreed, pulling herself up onto her stool again. "I like him. But I feel like he's way out of my league. Did you see his watch? Or his sweater?"

"I saw his car outside. Man drives a Bentley. You really hooked one."

* * *

True to his word, Hannibal was waiting for her as soon as Dan had locked the door behind them. She was almost scared to get in his car, worried that she'd track snow and grit into his spotless interior, but she was relieved to see he'd already put down a temporary cover to keep them clean.

"Where are we going?" she asked, struggling to pull her billowy skirt through the door without shutting it on the delicate fabric. "And do you mind if I change clothes? I have wool stockings on and everything but I'd rather be a little more warm."

"I thought I'd take you to my favorite store. I want to treat you to something. And yes, I assume you live close?"

"Literally a couple of blocks away. Take a left here, it's not far."

But then she realized he would see her tiny, tiny house, and she felt a little more than nervous. Surely to god he wouldn't judge her for it, but it was all she had. She squirmed in the passenger's seat, trying to distract herself by checking her nails, but when she saw a chip in her fresh gray polish it only made it worse.

"It's not a lot to look at," she said quietly as they pulled up.

"I quite like it. Very European style cottage. I'll just wait out here."

"You can come in! Don't sit out here in the cold."

He nodded, following her closely up the steps to the door, but again she balked at him being in her house. It wasn't messy in the least but...so many plants. Racks of pots, hanging baskets, trailing pothos hanging from every surface in her kitchen...it was cluttered.

When she opened the door, ushering him inside, she heard a soft "oh my" and cringed.

"I know it's really bad, I have a problem-"

"No, not at all. It's beautiful," he said quickly, interrupting her to stop her from apologizing. He meandered down the hallway toward her kitchen, pausing at nearly every display with a curious eye. "Your house is quite literally alive. I've never seen anything like it."

She watched him drift beneath a hanging basket, fingers skimming a string of pearls succulent before he moved onto her cuttings in the kitchen window. They all sat in a little row in clear glass beakers, roots barely beginning to reach out in the water.

"Those are from plants I need to re-pot," she told him, gripping her white tile counter nervously. "Sometimes they get too large for my pots so I take cuttings and start over from babies. But you can hang out in the living room if you want, it's warmer in there."

"Right. I'm just amazed that you're able to take care of all of this alone," he said, following her to her living room. He perched on her antique couch, running his hand over the burgundy crushed velvet. It was like her house was sensory overload to him; his eyes never settled, dancing from object to object, especially pleased with the simple arched stained glass that filtered light into her living room. "And this house is beautiful. Very bohemian, I think is the term."

"It's so cold and dingy without all the stuff I've picked up over the years. You should have seen it when I got it." She slipped through the beaded curtain into her sunken bedroom, rifling through her dresser quickly. "Should I dress up? What kind of place is it?"

"Wear whatever you like. Whatever makes you comfortable."

"Should I put on makeup...?"

"If you wish, but you certainly don't need it. Your skin is porcelain, Nora."

Thankful he couldn't see her, she blushed, burying her face in a sweater.

"I mean, I usually don't wear it anyway...but sometimes I like to put on a little," she tried, glancing over at her vanity. "Would it bother you? I would just feel better if I did."

"You don't need my permission. Wear what you feel the best in."

She scuttled about her room, passing back and forth at her vanity, struggling to pick an outfit. Alana had said the black jeans were flattering, but were they fancy enough? She didn't have anything more proper and they didn't particularly look like jeans save the pockets, so she settled on that before scavenging her closet for anything even remotely attractive.

Black. Black. Black. Grey. Green. Black. She thumbed through endless rows of black lace and tulle before stumbling over a sweater she'd never worn and suddenly she had an idea and an inspiration; the color of it was perfect.

The color of his eyes.

And, she thought to herself, she had lipstick to match.

She threw it on, realizing immediately why she'd never worn it. It had a large v-shaped cut out in the back that was almost the length of her hair, held together only by thin strips fabric that draped across her skin like cobwebs.

Christ, she thought to herself. No bra it is. But under a coat, it didn't really matter even with her hair pulled up as it was, so she chose her jewelry quickly and grabbed her favorite coat before putting on a soft line of eyeliner and lipstick to match the sweater. Then boots, she thought, but she was keeping him too long so she packed a purse of essentials and went about her way.

His eyes swept over her once when she stumbled up the short steps into her living room, pausing on her face.

"Perfect," he said wistfully, standing to put his coat back on. "Are you ready?"

"I think so," she breathed, straightening her coat. It always wanted to wrinkle at the hem, just above her knees. She could never keep a long coat that behaved. "Take me away, Doctor."

* * *

The entire car ride had her worked up, wound tighter than a spring in a clock. She flipped the visor down to check her makeup, minimal though it was, and Hannibal raised an eyebrow at her.

"Nora. I assure you, you look quite beautiful," he said softly. "Makeup has quite an effect on you. You obviously aren't using it to cover anything. It's simply exaggerating your natural loveliness."

Before she could retort, he was parking the car, already out and opening her door. She stepped out carefully, the heel of her boot crunching unpleasantly in the snow. Salt air washed over her and she squinted into the dark and steady snowfall, realizing they weren't far from the harbor.

"Here," he said, pulling her hood up and straightening the overlapping lapels of her coat. "It's a short walk. Don't get chilled."

And then his hand was at the small of her back and he was ushering her down a snow-covered sidewalk, talking more at her than to her about why he liked this particular place. But he still hadn't told her what it was.

They passed by a small dock before coming to a more commercial district, one lined with little brick cafes and boutiques. She'd never even seen this part of town. It was very secretive, very tucked away in a grove that looked almost like a city park. Very artisanal. The warm-colored streetlights made it feel a little less cold and the storefronts were so inviting. It was almost like she was in a different time and place altogether.

He looped his arm with hers, guiding her to a two-story building that looked like it had been a factory at one point. "I think you'll enjoy this," he told her, swinging open a mirrored door for her.

Wine racks lined the impossibly long room, lighted dimly by Tiffany lamps of every shape and size and color hung low from the ceiling. It was a very speakeasy style store, bare brick walls and ornate wooden bars where the cash registers and displays were.

"Upstairs is filled with samples and accessories. Choose whichever one you like, no matter what it is, and I'll make you a dinner to match it," he said, and for a moment she was so overwhelmed that she didn't feel his hands at her waist, his face dipped low beside hers. "Anything you like."

He pulled her hood back gently before nudging her farther inside the store, stepping back to watch her browse.

And browse she did. She drifted from rack to rack, every name completely unfamiliar to her. A sales associate followed her closely but she could feel Hannibal's eyes on him protectively, even though the man had greeted him by name and was quite happy to see him.

The sales associate rattled off so much information she almost couldn't keep up with it. Flavors and bouquets and regions and varieties.

"Is there anything that's citrus-y?" she asked, following him around a rack of white wines.

"Yes, actually," the man told her. "There's a few right here. And there's a rosé that might be what you're looking for. Would you like to try it?"

"Actually, I want it to be a surprise," she answered.

Hannibal gave her quite a look, shocked at her challenge.

After a go-around with the sales associate on what was best, she finally chose something labeled simply "Lillet". Surely Hannibal didn't know that one. But the second she handed it to him, she could see the little gears turning in his head. He already had an idea.

"Lillet Blanc," he mused, turning the bottle over in his hands. "You're quite fond of fruity flavors. But this is a challenge, considering this is usually a more summery wine."

"Well, there's your challenge. Think you can handle it?"

He simply smirked at her, sending a violent shiver down her spine.


	8. Chapter 8

****Thanks so much for all the favorites! This is a particularly long chapter, sorry I took so long with it but I re-wrote it about 3 times before I decided on this version. Hopefully I chose the right one! Thanks again for the follows and favorites!****

* * *

Hannibal's house was nothing like and yet exactly as she imagined. Tall, imposing, lavish. Somehow she hadn't intended on being there but ended up there anyway, quite willingly whether she wanted to admit it or not.

He ushered her inside through an ornate foyer, taking her coat politely, but she shied away from him when she remembered the ridiculous back of her sweater. She loosed her hair quickly to cover it.

Thankfully, she figured he hadn't really seen it and she kept behind him as he lead her through what she figured was his office. She tried not to gape, she really did, but the office was absolutely massive and to her shock it had its own mezzanine lined with books as far as she could see. Had it been daytime, she could imagine the light pouring through the towering widows behind what looked like his consulting area and his desk. Not to mention the furniture was out of this world. Retro-modern, almost. Sleek. Clinical but luxurious.

"I see my patients here," he confirmed, noting her expression as they passed beneath one end of the mezzanine. "You're welcome to my library as well. I'm not sure I own anything that would be of interest to you but there are a few classics."

She couldn't find words. He apparently got some sort of satisfaction out of this, smiling to himself before leading her into a kitchen.

Again, sleek and clinical, but lavish. There was a stainless steel topped island, fitted with a gas range, cornered by some sort of exotic set of wood cabinets and a stone she didn't recognize as the counter top. There was even a very special cutting block that looked absolutely impossible to use. A set of glass doors lead out into what looked like a courtyard between the other wings of the house.

The pantry was unholy. She peered inside as he rifled through all manner of ingredients, everything from fresh to dried to packaged by hand. The wine rack was also pretty expansive and she wondered why he'd gone through the trouble of letting her pick one, but maybe it was his way of showing affection or interest or whatever it was that he felt about her.

"Lillet Blanc is commonly used in cocktails. Have you ever heard of a corpse reviver?" he asked her, maneuvering her around to one side of the island. He retrieved a shaker and a set of pristine glasses in front of her.

"I haven't but it sounds like something I'd like," she answered.

"I figured as much. Your bookcase in your living room says a lot about your tastes."

Though he was obviously joking, she still balked, biting her lip nervously.

"What is it about the paranormal that interests you?" he continued, revealing what looked like an ice machine and mini fridge hidden behind a panel in the island. Absolutely filled to the brim with expensive liquor. What didn't he have? "Is it the uncertainty?"

"I guess," she fumbled, watching him measure out his chosen poisons rather carefully. "I've always liked ghost stories. Or a good mystery. I know it's very cliche."

"People who feel uncertain in their lives often seek answers and structures in the world around them. Even they create an imaginary correlation. Illusory patterns," he mused. "Do you feel uncertain, Nora?"

Wow, she thought. Call me out. She struggled to give him an answer when it felt like he already knew it.

"The other books, though. _American Psycho._ The Murakami novels. That says something quite different about you than just uncertainty."

"What does it say?" she countered.

He handed her his masterfully mixed cocktail, waiting for her to take a sip before he tested his own. She could tell by the shimmer in his eye that he was enjoying this far too much; 10 minutes in his house and he was already dissecting her, filleting her thoughts like a cut of beef. He might as well have spilled her brains all over his immaculately polished counter.

But he also had her waiting on baited breath for his answer. She wanted to see if he really could pick her apart like she felt he could, if his opinion of her was really as profound as she imagined. Maybe she would learn something about herself.

"I think you find the darkness of it all nurturing. Maybe even retrospective. You immerse yourself in the morbidity of human reality to take stock of your own positive qualities. There is a beautiful complexity between the perverse and the sublime. You can't look away. In fact, I feel you seek it. You would be wont to open the coffin door after it's closed." He paused only briefly to take a stiff swig of his drink, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Your brand of curiosity is quite dangerous. But I like it."

She was flabbergasted yet again, his small compliment at the end lost on her. Horrified? No. Aghast at his accuracy? Yes. It was like he could physically see the corners of her mind, like his maroon-colored eyes bored straight through her skull. It was enlightening to her as well, as she hadn't ever really considered the reasoning behind her terrible flair for the taboo, but she couldn't back her way out of his assumptions. He was right. Painfully so.

"Is it customary of you to psychoanalyze on the first date?" she said finally, concentrating on the notes of oranges and lemon and gin in her drink. And maybe even absinthe?

It was a playful jab and he caught it, chuckling at her, disappearing into his pantry briefly.

"Such a dated word," he answered her, his voice muffled by his rustling through produce. "I would call it observing. Have I overstepped a boundary?"

"No...but that's some pretty in-depth observing, Doctor Lecter."

He emerged with armfuls of vegetables, beaming at her. Like he'd won something. A small victory to himself that he'd struck a nerve already. Honestly, even though she expected this from him, she was slightly shocked by this new facet. He'd probably been waiting for an opportunity like this since he met her. But that was what she got for getting involved with a noted psychiatrist.

She steeled herself, taking another deep drag of her cocktail. It was refreshing, cooling in the very least. Almost medicinal with the taste of gin dominating the final lasting flavors of the drink. It soothed the heat that she felt in the room that definitely wasn't from the stove he'd just lit.

Again, he set her to menial tasks. Chopping things, mixing things, little jobs that helped him speed along the process. He'd already started what he told her was the "cold appetizer".

"It's not a full course meal, unfortunately," he told her, obviously disappointed in himself. "I find myself lacking severely in vegetarian options. Next time, I'll fix that."

"I don't think I could honestly finish an entire meal like that. I don't really eat a lot."

"It's not the quantity of food that makes the courses. It's an important juxtaposition of hot and cold and specific flavors. But tonight, I'll improvise. Here, I have something important for you to do."

She shied away from him then, shaking her head.

"I am not a good cook at all," she pleaded, but he gave her an expectant look that had her scurrying back to his side.

"Then now is the perfect time to learn. You're going to make egg noodles," he said firmly. "Just follow my lead. It is tedious, but not difficult."

He was right. The process was a lot of mixing and kneading and rolling out and then repeating. He even gave her his apron to keep flour off her sweater, rolling her sleeves up for her before she could dirty them. And he watched her like a hawk the entire time, like she was in some sort of premier chef school. She half expected Gordon Ramsay to appear at any time and berate her mother but Hannibal's cooking was far above Ramsay's standards.

"One last time, I need you to roll it out in a sheet," he instructed as he passed back and forth behind her, only pausing to look over her shoulder. Quality control.

"Do you have one of those extruder things?"

"Heavens no. These are cut by hand."

She fought her grimace. How complicated could he make things?

Another shaker of his magical corpse reviver disappeared and soon she was operating a little more smoothly than before, falling into a rhythm with him, the edge completely buffed off her nerves. She presented her perfectly flat egg noodle dough proudly, her arms screaming at her internally from all the rolling.

"Perfect," he praised, and she fought a gasp of surprise when he curled around her body, his arms slipping around her from behind.

Her fawning over him was nearly dashed when he folded the dough sheet back in on itself, folding it in halves loosely until he had a sort of flattened roll. After she'd worked so hard on it. That sentiment was quickly lost though when he placed a knife in her hand, his own hand covering hers to guide it.

"Carry yourself confidently, Nora. If you slouch, your work will slouch," he said lowly at her ear, his other hand cupping the dip in her waist. "Your knife must be straight, up and down, level."

Her heart hammered so loudly in her chest she was sure he could hear it. The heat from his body radiated against hers, like the sun on her back during a hot summer's day, a flush creeping slowly up her neck and over her face. Sunburn. If she drew any closer to him, she would burn alive.

He watched her closely for a minute, his free hand drifting aimlessly along the curve of her waist and hip, making her acutely aware of how close he really was. She could feel his chest brush against her back as he breathed, hips resting against hers oh-so-temptingly.

She wanted to protest when his hand left hers, a chill rushing over her skin where his warmth had been. But then she felt his fingers trailing across her bare shoulder, just where her sweater revealed, eventually skimming up beneath her hair. He gathered it carefully, sweeping it over her other shoulder. She was very aware of every single cutout in the back of her sweater then, shivering at the feeling of his pressed shirt against the revealed skin, her body dangerously close to spontaneous combustion.

He knew exactly what he was doing to her, she thought, instinctively leaning into him. His breath ghosted across the curve of her neck and she found herself leaning her head to the side, aching for him at this point. Anything. Anything more than what he was giving her now, just this small taste.

"I might make quite the cook out of you yet," he crooned, placing a searing kiss against her fluttering pulse. It was as if he'd heaped embers on the side of her neck. She stifled a soft gasp, her breathing ragged, fire coursing through her veins.

She could have screamed when he stepped away from her, frustration taking the place of blind desire. The coldness of his house quickly doused the warmth in her body. He gave her a knowing look, a nefarious smile dancing at his lips, but it was so subtle that she wondered if all of this was far more than she was reading into it.

Soon, she was seated in his beautiful but almost ostentatious indigo dining room, marveling at his living wall of indoor herbs. It was much more minimal than her vast shelves of plants but it was enough to draw her attention from him that she could appreciate. Even his table settings seemed alive, made from fresh cut flowers, dotted with candles and feathers and more lavish textures than she could really comprehend.

Plate after plate appeared in front of her. A delicate seaweed salad. A mixed vegetable plate, filled with flavors she'd never tasted before. Seitan, cooked exactly as he had his own cut of beef, with a glaze that reminded her somewhat of a much more delicious kind of orange chicken dish. Again absolutely loaded with vegetables and presented to her in a way that she felt like she was ruining great works of art with every bite.

Finally, her noodles appeared in a dish that was not exactly what she expected. It was something like a Thai dish, loaded with Chinese broccoli and tofu (especially for her, again) and the very noticeable flavor of dark soy sauce. It was a rich, almost overwhelming dish that again had hints of orange and citrus throughout. Flavors together that she never thought would work.

The cocktail was like a refreshing reprieve from all the intense flavors. And he produced them like magic. Each time she'd finish one it was filled again before she noticed.

"Are you trying to get me toasted?" she asked sarcastically.

"I'm simply refilling your glass," he shot back, obviously biting back a smirk. "If you want dessert, I was thinking that-"

Both of them jumped when a grating, ear piercing alarm cut him off. She instantly recognized it as the emergency alert tone and fumbled with her phone, cursing under her breath when it repeated loudly.

"An emergency alert has been issued for the following counties..." she read, squinting down at her screen. "A winter storm warning is in effect until 3AM. Travel is dangerous and discouraged. Oh god... Look, I'll just call a cab really quickly and see if I can get home before it's a problem."

He shook his head. "No need. If it's dangerous, I'd prefer you stay here. I have a guest bedroom you'd like. But maybe it hasn't started in just yet."

She followed him to the glass doors in the kitchen, huffing when she realized the snow was coming down so hard she couldn't see two inches past the glass. It was already piling up, and quickly.

"I think I'm stuck," she sighed. "Look, I'm really sorry and don't take this the wrong way but I really hadn't expected to stay here-"

"I completely understand. I hadn't expected to keep you. But I'll do my best to make sure you're comfortable."

"What about your patients?"

"I'll call them in the morning if it looks unfavorable. I didn't have an appointment until 10. I do need to start a fire in your room, though. It's probably extremely cold."

"There's a fireplace in the individual rooms?"

"Of course."

"Of course," she echoed incredulously. "You live in a castle."

"I believe it's much more habitable than a damp old castle. But back to dinner. Would you like desert?"

The look on his face told her he'd be disappointed if she said no.

"Why not. I guess we've got all night," she shrugged, and again Hannibal beamed at her.

"Of course we do. I have some candied fruits I was planning to surprise you with at work, but I guess it won't hurt to treat you now," he said, almost absently, as if he was talking to himself. "All I need to do is coat them..."

"Coat them in what?"

"Dark chocolate. And blood orange liqueur. Do you like blood oranges?"

She groaned dramatically. "You're going to kill me," she told him, wandering back around the edge of the kitchen island. "Bringing me things like that at work. Good god."

"I thought you might share with your friends. Though I'd rather you not, if I'm being honest. These are specifically yours," he said, and he meant it quite seriously.

"So you just want to make a show of it."

"Maybe. But again, these are for you."

She watched him this time, partly because there wasn't anything for her to do and also because she wasn't sure she could stand another bout of teasing. The bright smell of the liqueur and bitter dark chocolate filled her senses as he stirred it vigilantly in a double boiler, his eyes never leaving it. It's easy to burn, he told her, but she halfway wanted his attentions. She felt something odd blossom in her chest when she scolded herself, wondering briefly if this was what the beginning of something more than a crush felt like before dismissing it coldly. It was far too early for that and the cocktail was speaking.

He retrieved a covered tray of sliced oranges from some sort of drying rack in his pantry. The color of dried blood oranges was something that Nora didn't quite anticipate; it was vibrant, dark, almost visceral, in the same way that pomegranates looked like gore from afar.

Watching him hand dip each one and lay it on wax paper to dry was agonizing.

"Are you really going to make me wait for those to dry?" she asked, anxiously pacing the edge of the counter beside him.

"It's a chocolate shell. The crunch is part of the appeal," he said simply. "Patience."

"Just a taste, then?"

Finally, his eyes met hers, but there was a calculating deviousness hidden behind them that made her shiver.

"If you insist," he relented, motioning for her to come closer as he removed the double boiler from heat. "Come here."

He dipped another orange, tapping it lightly with the tip of his finger to test the temperature.

"I was just going to get one you already did-"

"Just a taste," he reminded her, silencing her by swiping his finger over her bottom lip.

She had only a brief moment to register the hot chocolate on her mouth before his lips captured hers, soft and warm like sun-kissed skin. She couldn't really describe the noise she made; something like a moan and a gasp, but whatever it was felt like she'd poured gasoline over an open flame.

The tone of his kiss shifted immediately. He delved into her mouth feverishly, trapping her against the counter, his hands burning against her face. There was no space between them. No air in her lungs to cool the scorch that engulfed her body. Coals settled deep within her, smoldering, her body aching for him in ways she didn't think possible. Her hands were lost, overwhelmed, traveling over the strong planes of his chest and flattening against his ribs.

A thick haze of desire clouded her thoughts. She was only aware of the closeness of his body, of the delicious, nearly painful ache that was slowly devouring her from her core outward.

"Impatience will get you only a taste," he breathed, scattering blistering open-mouthed kisses along her jaw.

She struggled to find anything to hold on to, her fingers twisting into his white dress shirt desperately as his hips crushed against hers.

"A brief...-" his lips captured hers again, "-frustrating taste." She could only whimper when his tongue swept across her lips, the taste of chocolate crossing her senses fleetingly before he broke away from her, pressing one last butterfly kiss to the corner of her mouth.

And then he was done. His warmth gone from her again. He left her panting against the counter, her glasses askew, watching him blankly as he returned to his oranges. The smirk on his face was almost insulting.

Yes, the oranges were the most delicious thing she'd ever eaten, that much was certain. But she was completely disinterested in them by the time he finished. He knew it.

Hannibal smiled at her and she languished.

"I never asked how you ended up at the florist's," he said, breaking the thick silence that had settled over the kitchen. "Or about your education."

What a deflection, she thought. "I have a botany degree," she quipped. "Just a bachelor's degree. I specialized in morphology. Whole lot of good that did me."

"You never found a career?" He rattled around, cleaning his counters and running dishes through the sink before starting to place them in a dishwasher.

"I had a few offers, but...I don't know. I don't like to get into it. I made a lot of stupid decisions, I'll put it that way," she mumbled, retrieving plates for him to wash. She helped him load the dishwasher, wiping down the counter around the sink for him.

"You were young."

"Yes, actually. I was 22 when I graduated."

"Too young for anyone to take you seriously?"

She shrugged, returning to the glass doors to watch the snow pile higher. "That was part of it, I guess. I got a job as a field technician for a while but then I got tangled up with someone and there was a scandal and I resigned before they could fire me. I made plenty of money I guess, I got that house, but that's pretty much where I've been for like...10 years now. I've worked at libraries and cafes and all sorts of things just to pay my bills but I like the flower shop. I don't have anything to pay off, just the light bill and water and my phone and internet. So I guess I have it pretty good."

She could feel his eyes on her from across the kitchen. Of course he wanted to delve into her tragic backstory while she was buzzed. Annoyance flashed over her before she finally reasoned that it was just what he did; it was literally his job to pick people apart and it was probably habitual and unintentional. Or maybe he really just wanted to know more about her. She couldn't tell, he was nearly predatory at times and it blurred the distinction between his interest and analysis.

Predatory. That was a strangely fitting word for him, and she wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the way he questioned her, or the way he taunted her with his ridiculous idea of flirting. But she liked it. She liked the feeling that he was so invested in pursuing her, or at least she wanted to believe that was what it was.

He swept her hair up carefully with both hands, startling her, letting it slide through his fingers like satin.

"I know you're fond of what you do, but you must have some hobbies other than plants and books," he remarked, his eyes meeting hers in their reflection on the glass. "What do you do when you're not at work?"

"I really just stay at home. I used to take dance lessons but the studio moved so far away I couldn't walk to it."

"You look like a dancer. Ballet?"

"I've done ballet since I was a kid. But I like ballroom dancing too."

"Interesting. You'll have to show me. Come sit with me, I have so many questions for you."

* * *

They settled in sort of a den-like room, deep within the house, a hot fire crackling before them. He finally seemed to relax in front of her, but there was no tiredness in his eyes. She couldn't fathom how he wasn't sleepy after their day and she had no idea what time it was; her only frame of reference was how dark it was outside and that wasn't reliable.

Again, she talked freely with him. He openly invited her to his side this time, ushering her closer so that he could drape his arm over her shoulders. When she pulled her knees up to her chin, trying to tuck herself as close as possible, he swept his arm beneath her legs and pulled them across his lap so that she was leaning into his collarbones and chest comfortably. This was new, she thought. He didn't seem like the type that was keen on closeness.

"The tattoo on your neck..." he started, and she cringed into his chest. His fingers trailed over the tattoo lazily, blindly, tracing the slightly raised skin. "What does it represent?"

"You're going to think it's banal."

"I assure you I won't."

"If you say so..." she sighed, pulling her hair over her shoulder and turning around so that he could see it fully. He tugged at the neckline of her sweater to reveal the rest of it, running the back of his fingers over it curiously.

"It's the last tattoo I got. After I left my field job," she explained, shivering as his fingertips explored her skin. "It's ah... Okay, please don't judge me, first of all. And second, I don't really believe in this stuff anymore so I don't have any connection to it anymore but at the time it was kind of relevant I guess-"

"You're worrying far too much. Tattoos may be permanent on the skin but they are transient in the heart. And it's quite beautiful."

"Right. I paid a lot for it. It's all symbols associated with Hecate. Aconite, belladonna, candles, the snake..."

"A three-headed snake, no less."

"Well, if you look, everything is in threes," she continued. "I know it's really lame but for a while I was very devoted. Her specifically, but I guess I was a polytheist."

"I pictured you as more of a...Persephone figure," he mused, pulling her back to his side. "But Hecate is quite fitting."

"I admired Persephone as well. But I always saw her as a sort of damsel in distress. Or either the biggest representative of Stockholm syndrome ever. You know, in old myths, Hecate rescued Persephone from Hades."

"Did she need rescuing? It seems to me she took to her position well. Maybe she liked being the queen of the underworld."

Nora shrugged, timidly edging her face closer to the collar of his shirt. He smelled very faintly of a clean, fresh aftershave and the scent of the dark chocolate and blood oranges clung to him from earlier. It was enticing, to say the least, and it gave her an excuse to try and get closer to him.

"Maybe so," she told him, replaying his kisses in her mind. Chocolate would never be the same for her. "Maybe I just don't like the idea of her being shackled to someone against her will."

"You are a very independent individual. Introverted. Are you ever lonely?"

The question struck her hard. Yes, she wanted to say. All the time. Other than Alana and her coworkers, she rarely interfaced with anyone at all, and she hadn't really considered that. She didn't trust anyone enough to invest time into them, but then she realized where she was and what she was doing. The exact opposite of her standards.

"Are you?" she countered, raising her head up to look at him intently.

The firelight flickered on his face, glittering gold in his dark eyes as he thought for only a moment.

"I suppose I can be," he answered, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. "I have friends. Work often separates us. But they also aren't quite as interesting as you are. You have a depth to you that I admire greatly."

Again, she caught his gaze, but skepticism nagged the back of her mind.

"What exactly do you want from me...?" she asked, shifting and pulling her legs back beneath her so that she could face him. "I know you said you don't really have an angle but you have to understand where I'm coming from. Nobody just...wants to be around me. There's always something they want from me."

"Companionship," he said simply. "Someone to dote on who isn't caught up in this...situation with Will. Having someone outside of the fray is refreshing. You're something that I've needed for a long time, but that I never knew I needed."

"I don't want to be someone you just lavish with things as a distraction, though," she said defensively, but he paused her.

"That's not what I intended for you to take from that. It's not about things, it's attention. Investing time in someone knowing that it's going to be returned to you without stipulation. Being able to talk, like this, without the feeling of one-sidedness I often get from others. I speak to you, and you listen intently. You speak, and I hang on your every word." He cupped her cheek gently, his hand warmer than the fire against her skin. "Let me indulge you. Let me learn you. That's what I want from you."

She leaned into his touch unconsciously, keenly aware of his thumb following her cheekbone slowly. How had she ended up here? Why was she even in this situation? Getting tangled up with this machine-like god of a man, this mystery of a person, who she still couldn't read. Who had turned a feeling of dread into a strange desire to know more about him, to dig through the opulent facade and get to the core of him. He had already set his fangs in her and she felt it like a toxin bubbling through her veins, poisoning her from the inside out in the most beautiful way.

Maybe, she thought, she had done the same to him, and he would reveal his vulnerabilities to her. He did seem awfully entranced with her, she had to admit. But there was something much, much deeper to him that she had to uncover. She had to know. What made him tick?

"All I have to give you is myself," she said softly. "I don't have any money or food or gifts..."

"All I want is you."

She couldn't see anything other than sincerity in his eyes and she blushed at his statement, thankful that the firelight probably hid it. Not that it mattered anyway, he'd seen her blush a million times at this point and there was no sense in hiding that she liked him. Not now. Not when they both obviously and openly wanted some sort of relationship.

He skimmed his fingers beneath her chin lightly, drawing her closer, his eyes searching hers only momentarily before she closed the distance between them.

She kissed him sweetly, melting into him when he returned her affection without hesitation. This time, he didn't break away from her so quickly as he had in the kitchen. Instead he showered her with kisses, soft and tender, stirring the slow burn in her body that he'd started earlier.

She wasn't entirely sure how she ended up straddled across his lap, her hands twisted in his shirt collar, his greedily following the shape of her body and the cutouts in the back of her sweater. But she liked it. Her whole body ached pleasantly, set ablaze by his touch. She thought to herself that he must be an excellent lover but brushed it away quickly, embarrassed to admit that the thought even crossed her mind but how could it not? He was kissing her in ways that alluded to more, but only on her terms, only questioningly.

Each of her reactions, she knew, was getting cataloged in his memory for later. Every sigh, every little moan he worked from her lips. All of it he would remember and likely find some way to make it better, even though it seemed impossible for him to improve on anything at that moment.

At some point, though, she felt herself tire. She was drowsy, struggling to keep her eyes open when they parted, even though her body screamed at her for more.

"Nora, you need to rest," he murmured, pressing their cheeks together affectionately. "I can tell you're fighting it."

"I am," she sighed. "I think your drinks caught up to me again. Alcohol always ends up making me sleepy."

"Then let me take you to bed."

She only nodded, struggling to her feet, but he swept her up in his arms easily.

"I can walk," she protested, but he only shook his head.

"You don't have to."

"But I can..."

"Let me spoil you," he said firmly. "Besides. I don't think you can."

She huffed and linked her arms around his neck, but it only took seconds for sleep to begin tugging at her conscious again. She would never admit it, but if he wasn't carrying her, she would probably have just slept on the couch.

After bouncing up a flight of stairs, she felt him place her in a deep nest of blankets and pillows. She blinked up at him blearily but he took her glasses, placing them on a nightstand before turning his attention to the fireplace that she could barely see from the bed.

"I have a shirt and pajamas that would possibly fit you," he told her, but it barely registered. The fire flickered to life and he disappeared briefly before presenting her with a soft plain t-shirt and a pair of striped pajama pants. "I'm afraid this is all I have, though."

"It's no big deal, I promise," she yawned. "Are you going to bed?"

"I believe so. Do you need anything else?"

"I don't think so..."

He bent down to kiss her one last time, only briefly, brushing his hand over her hair. "Good night, then," he said softly. "If you need me my room is just next to yours."

* * *

Nora barely managed to put on his t-shirt before passing out peacefully in the pillowy bed, relishing the softness of sheets she imagined had a threadcount higher than most people's paychecks. The fire kept her comfortably warm, but she was consumed by the thought of how much better it would be if she had just talked her way into his bed instead.

She dreamed of him, of course. Of what it must be like to sleep beside him, his warmth at her back. Or what it would feel like to sleep with her head on his chest. She was absolutely intoxicated by him, her lips still tingling with the feeling of his kisses.

His skin, she thought, must be like touching the surface of the sun. She wanted more. She wanted him. And maybe it was the cocktail, maybe it was her sleepiness, but maybe it was also him. Yes, it was him. The sharpness of his face, his high cheekbones, his startling wine-colored eyes. The scent of his clean sandalwood aftershave. The softness of his lips, the way he explored her mouth, the bitterness of dark chocolate on his tongue. All of it made her ache almost painfully for him even as she drifted into a deep sleep. Her dreams were plagued with him permanently at this point but she would never complain. Not when they made her feel this way, so alive, so vibrant.

Uninhibited, her mind explored, flashing fleeting but alluring images of her tangled with him in his plush sheets and blankets.

She kicked the covers off, her whole body burning. It crossed her mind unconsciously that she could just go to his room, that he'd probably be one hundred percent okay with it or that maybe he was waiting on her but that, she told herself, was wishful thinking.

A cold chill washed over her and she shivered, startled by how frigid it was. Surely his house didn't have drafts. But as she reached for just the sheet, a feeling of dread settled in her stomach, completely engulfing any feeling she'd been dreaming about.

It was a sickening feeling. She lay almost paralyzed, her breath ragged with fear, wondering what in the world could possibly have her so scared, but then she saw it.

The creature. That god forsaken thing she'd seen in her nightmare. Swathed in black, looming in the shadows near the fireplace, milky white eyes gleaming at her across the room. So tall that the stag's antlers nearly grazed the ceiling.

I'm having a night terror, she told herself, but she couldn't look away from it. It felt as if the distance was closing between her and it but neither of them had moved; the room was closing around them. She struggled to scream, to yell for Hannibal, but her breath caught in her throat and she could only stare at it wordlessly, her heart stuttering in fear.

Shut your eyes, she thought. Just shut your eyes.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gasping for breath now, feeling for a moment that the night terror had broken. But the chill of the room seeped into her bones and she had to force herself to open her eyes even the slightest bit.

Her breath came back to her when she saw that it was gone and she gulped for air, shaking from the adrenaline coursing through her system. She sat up, scanning the room for it, trying to convince herself that it was just a bad dream, but the dread that weighed on her only began to suffocate her.

"Hannibal," she whispered to herself. "Just go get Hannibal."

But she tried to talk herself out of it, eventually settling back into the bed. There was no sense in waking him up over a bad dream. She pulled her covers back over herself, pressing her face into the soft down comforter.

No more alcohol before bed, she thought. None at all. She rolled to her side, reaching for a pillow to hug in place of Hannibal, but her hand came to rest on something icy, something leathery and wrong.

Her eyes flew open and she was face to face with the monster. It lay beside her in the bed, expressionless, cloudy eyes fixated blankly on her.

This time she screamed. She threw herself out of the bed, stumbling into the hallway, disoriented by the length of it and the pure darkness. Even without her glasses, though, she could make out the shape of the creature at the end of the hallway, silhouetted by the moonlight.

"Hannibal!" she gasped, realizing that his door was not so far from where it stood.

She made a break for his door, her eyes never leaving the creature.

"Hannibal!" Her voice cracked when she screamed, sliding to a halt at his door. "Hannibal please!"

It was somewhat closer now, inescapable, and with each glance over her shoulder it seemed as if it was polluting the hallway with an intangible darkness.

Suddenly, she was falling forward, through the door and against Hannibal's chest. His arms encircled her and he dragged her inside, collapsing at the foot of his bed in a heap with her crushed against him protectively.

"Nora, Nora it's me," he cooed, smoothing her hair frantically. "Nora, listen to me. I'm right here."

She was absolutely hysterical. She sobbed into his chest, her own heaving for air.

"What is it?" he questioned, tilting her face up to his. "What did you see?"

"I don't even know!" she cried. "I don't know!"

"Try to describe it. Was it someone? Do I need to call the police?"

Again, she struggled to even speak, her body wracked with sobs. He scooped her up an placed her on his bed, peering out into the hallway before going back to her room to search thoroughly. She called for him weakly, not wanting to be left alone, but jumped when he appeared in he doorway again.

"If someone was in the house, my alarm would have gone off," he told her, shutting the door firmly. "No one is here."

"It wasn't a person," she hiccuped. "It was this...thing."

He gave her a suspicious look then, concerned. He fumbled in his nightstand for a moment before she felt his thumb pull her eyelid up and a penlight burned into her vision, making her recoil.

"Do you have a history of hallucinations? Night terrors?" he asked, looking her over thoroughly. He felt her pulse, dipping down to listen to her heart the best he could before inspecting her for injuries. His light went over every inch of her, from her face and neck to her arms and her legs and belly. "Are you hurting? Do you feel sick in any way?"

"No," she whimpered. "But Hannibal, I felt it!"

"Night terrors often manifest as something that is tangible to the victim," he said flatly, picking up her hair to look at the back of her neck and head. "Now tell me, what was it?"

He scooted her to the head of his bed, wrapping her tightly in a heavy navy-colored blanket.

"I had a nightmare about it the other night, it's this...stag thing, it's all black and it's so tall and all wrong shaped, but I saw its eyes..." she blurted, curling into the blanket. "It had these white eyes, they're just blank, it was by the fireplace and then when I laid down again it was in the bed looking at me and I just-"

"Nora, breathe," he reminded her. "This sounds exactly like a night terror. Did you feel paralyzed?"

"Yes."

He nodded, slipping into the bed beside her, pulling her close against his body. "I must have interrupted your day to day schedule. Eating late, drinking late," he said, nestling his face into the back of her neck. "You're safe. I promise. Although where your brain pulled such imagery from is anyone's guess."

"I don't know...I've never seen anything like it..."

"Don't worry about it. Don't think about it, we'll worry about it in the morning. I'm here, and you're safe. Would you like for me to leave the lamp on?"

She nodded, settling into his hold appreciatively.

He held her all night, spooned around her defensively, the even pattern of his soft breathing behind her eventually luring her to sleep again. It was a blessfully dreamless sleep, not particularly refreshing but sleep nonetheless.

Her only comfort was him and his radiating warmth, his breath on her shoulder reminding her that he was real and that he was there, protecting her without question.


	9. Chapter 9

****Thanks for the reviews! This is a little bit of a filler chapter, I apologize for the length of it but I've not been doing well these past few days and I did the best I could. Thanks again for all the positive feedback, it makes my day!****

* * *

Nora woke to Hannibal's hand smoothing over her hair, drifting across her cheek affectionately.

"Nora," he called, rustling her hair gently when she didn't stir. "Nora, you need breakfast."

She blinked up at him, nuzzling into his hand, the smell of warm hazelnut and fruit drifting across her senses.

"You didn't have to do that," she murmured, but he urged her to sit up, placing a tray across her lap.

"I wanted to. And you always need breakfast," he retorted. He sat a covered plate on the tray, revealing what looked like a plate of fruit crepes drizzled with sugar and honey. "Hazelnut crepes and cream with honey. Strawberry and apricot slices for filling. It's all I was really prepared to make."

She watched him build her little tray up, setting a cup of whipped cream and a tall mug of hot coffee out before delicately placing her fork to one side. It was almost comical watching him fuss over something so simple, wrapped in his plaid robe, so stripped down compared to the Hannibal she'd gotten used to. She liked seeing him disheveled, no matter how slight it was. He felt human this way.

"I don't think anyone has ever made me breakfast in bed," she said quietly. "How early did you get up to make this?"

"I've only been awake for about an hour. You slept through my alarm, but that's quite okay. You needed the sleep. Speaking of which, we need to talk about what happened last night."

He sat down on the edge of the bed with her, settling his hand on her knee. Oh god, she thought, the 'I'm concerned about you' squeeze. Her stomach rolled nervously so she forced herself to at least pick at the plate, hoping that eating would settle her nerves.

"I'm worried about you," he started. Bingo. "I wanted to question you again, now that you are fully awake and calm. Do you remember what happened?"

"Part of it," she admitted. She took a tentative bite of his breakfast, savoring the light hazelnut flavor. "Or most of it, I guess. I remember thinking there was something in the room with me and when I looked up, the...thing was standing over by the fireplace looking at me."

"Can you describe it clearly now?"

She took a deep breath, fighting the feeling of panic that flashed over her when she recalled its face so close to hers, gazing at her across the pillows.

"It's humanoid. And it's like...I imagine its skin is like those peat bog mummies they find in Europe. The ones that are all leathery and smooth, but it's pitch black. It's...thin, skeletal, I can't really recall details other than the stag antlers and the eyes," she told him, squeezing her eyes shut as her body reacted to the images flashing through her mind. A stinging, almost painful shiver ran down her spine and she shuddered hard, Hannibal's hand tightening on her knee. "Its eyes are just white. Milk white. Like when you're out at night and you shine a light over the woods and you see something looking back at you, it's just a white shine in the dark."

He pursed his lips tightly, looking down and away from her briefly.

"Are you afraid of deer?" he asked finally. "Stags? Any animals at all?"

"Not at all. I hate spiders but I think that's normal."

"Have you watched anything or read anything with this kind of imagery?"

"I can't remember anything even remotely like it."

He sighed heavily, brushing his loose bangs out of his face. "When you're done eating, I want to check your vitals again. Look you over. It's uncommon for things like this to just manifest out of the blue but I suppose it could be related to drinking and eating before bed... But anyway. Come down to my office when you're finished. I need to call a few patients and look at the weather for the day."

* * *

Nora took her time with breakfast, lounging around in his massive bed pensively before finally dragging herself out of it. The fire had died down sometime in the night and the room was chilly now, discouraging her from investigating his room. The navy blues and earth tones were comforting and she thought to herself she could have slept in there forever but he was probably wondering where she was at by now.

She managed to find her way back downstairs, making note of all the details of the house she'd missed last night. The morning light really set the house off, gave it less of a dreary castle feel and more of an alive, welcoming vibe. Like a library, or a museum. Even the kitchen seemed a little brighter when she dropped off her tray.

Hannibal was pacing back and forth slowly on the mezzanine in his office, scanning a large dog-eared book.

"You'll catch cold," he chided her, shutting the book with a soft thunk. She stopped in her tracks, realizing she was wandering around in an unfamiliar house in her underwear and his shirt.

"Your pajamas were too big," she muttered.

"I apologize. You are quite thin. If you don't mind, take a seat on the lounge."

She sat patiently, watching him climb down and root through a doctor's bag on his desk for a moment before producing a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff.

"I thought you were just a psychiatrist," she remarked. "Did you have another job before this?"

"I was a surgeon before. I must admit that life is not for me. It is quite chaotic and losing a patient takes a hard toll on the heart. But, we'll get into that later. Push your sleeve up."

She pushed the sleeve out of the way, huffing when he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm tightly. "I really hate this part," she grumbled. "It always feels like my arm is going to pop off."

"A necessary evil."

At least he was quick about it, she thought, watching the dial go up and back down slowly. He mumbled something about it being slightly below average before removing it.

"How low is it?"

"Not alarmingly low," he assured her, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead to check for fever. "Have you felt fatigued lately? Any problems with memory?"

"Not that I know of."

"Any vertigo? Stiff joints, heart palpitations?"

She grimaced when he pressed his fingertips firmly into her neck, feeling for swollen nodes and glands. "My heart has been kind of...jumpy lately? And I know that sometimes it's because of external stimuli but it's always when I lay down at night and try to go to sleep. It's like a hiccup," she admitted.

"Is it painful?"

"It's more of an annoyance. It keeps me from falling asleep sometimes."

"Look towards the light outside."

She obeyed and he watched her eyes carefully for a moment before turning her back to him, taking her hands firmly.

"Squeeze my hands," he ordered, and when he was satisfied he went to inspecting her nails. "Are these your nails? Not acrylic?"

"They're mine, my nails are healthy."

He methodically combed every inch of her, needling her with questions until she was almost out of answers. Everything from her hair to her skin to her gums and teeth. Obviously, he had a routine for this. Or maybe a script he'd memorized. If he hadn't been in his plaid robe she would have thought they were really in a hospital.

Then came the stethoscope. He slipped his hand beneath her shirt, pressing it against her heart and she gasped at how cold it was.

"Somebody should invent a stethoscope that warms itself," she complained. "They're always ice cold."

"It's part of the experience, just like having your blood pressure taken."

"I can't tell if you're joking."

"Maybe I am. Maybe not. Lie back," he told her, sliding her shirt up to reveal her stomach. "Do you have any abdominal pains?"

"No."

He prodded around with his stethoscope for a moment before kneading around on her stomach with his fingers. She'd had this done many times before, but every time the thought of her organs squishing around made her exceptionally uneasy. She knew he wouldn't hurt her but it was the premise of it that made her nervous.

"Have you had a surgery of some sort?" he asked, pausing just above her underwear.

"Why? What is it?"

"Scar tissue, I believe. Nothing important."

"I was sterilized a while back, that's probably what it is. It didn't go very well but it worked."

"Ah. It's not uncommon for scar tissue to form after ligation. But that's unrelated. You seem healthy, Nora, but what you mentioned about your heart concerns me. And I know you're fair skinned but by all standards you're very pale, even when you're flushed. Have you ever had a full blood panel done?" he asked, pulling her shirt back down before helping her up.

"I don't have insurance so it's not something I ever thought about going to the doctor for."

He shrugged his robe off, wrapping it around her tightly when she shivered. "If you promise me you'll go, I'll handle it," he said softly. "Vitamin B12 deficiency can cause some of the things you're experiencing. Heart palpitations, hallucinations. Pale skin. You may even be anemic. But I can't find any other physical signs for either."

"You can't start paying my medical bills," she sighed. "I know you're trying to be nice but I just don't feel like that would be fair. I would feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

"You wouldn't be. I'm offering to help. If you were taking without asking, that would be a different story. You being well is what I get in return."

"Am I really that important to you, though? This whole thing, this...I don't know, whatever it is we're doing is so new and I... Hannibal, I don't know."

He pulled her up to stand with him, circling his arms around her tightly. "If it makes you feel better, I have many contacts at the university. I could likely have it done as a favor if I ask the right people. Would you feel better about that?"

"I guess..."

Gently, he cradled her head against his chest, resting his chin against her hair. She settled into his hold then, happy to snuggle her face into his soft shirt and hot skin.

"I'll call them today, then. On another note, I spoke to the city earlier. They said the roads should be clear around 3 this afternoon. Would you like for me to take you home then?"

"If you don't mind. I have work tomorrow morning so I guess I need to go back... And I can't stay here forever."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like," he corrected. "I'm going to get dressed. You're welcome to the guest bathroom if you would like to shower or get dressed."

"I might take you up on that offer."

* * *

As expected, even the guest bathroom was ridiculous. And filled to the brim with soft towels and all sorts of luxury items like bath salts and soaps and every manner of necessity she could think of. There was even a fresh, unopened pack of toothbrushes in a drawer beneath the sink. It was like a hotel but so, so much better.

A hot shower left her feeling like she'd been at a resort spa. Whatever shampoo he'd put in the shower for her had her hair softer than she'd ever felt and her skin glowed. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to live there, feeling so refreshed every morning. Never lacking. Always in excess. It was a strange sort of paradise, one that made her as uncomfortable as it did pampered. She almost didn't feel like she belonged in his home at all, but at the same time he had quite literally given her the princess treatment.

You're just not used to this kind of lifestyle, she told herself. It's overwhelming is all.

She slipped back into her sweater, twisting her hair up into a loose bun to dry before tiptoeing back downstairs and to the office again where she'd spotted a vinyl record player earlier. What kind of music would someone like Hannibal have? Probably all classical, she thought. But she was quite surprised to find a trove of all sorts of music in the cabinet beneath it, spanning from the 40s to the present. Some of the records had labels on them, obviously something to do with a therapy session. Maybe someone liked music and that was how they communicated. But there were others that seemed lovingly taken care of that he probably listened to on his own, most of them classical music as she had predicted, but then she spotted her favorite singer of all time.

Dean Martin's trademark smile beamed back at her. She couldn't resist. It wasn't labeled, so she pulled it out and read the track listing quickly before plopping it on the turntable and setting it to her favorite song.

Even with the volume low, the opening jazzy brass always sent a thrill of excitement through her. How many times she'd danced to this song, she wasn't sure. Many, many times. Alone in her house, for slow-dancing practice, it didn't matter. It would always be her favorite song.

She drifted around his office, eyes closed, completely engrossed in the music and Dean Martin's smooth voice and the soft strings in the background. She always imagined that one day, when she met someone that finally interested her, maybe when she fell in love with them, that they'd be listening to this song in a classy restaurant somewhere in Paris. Maybe they'd travel the world together. That was the kind of imagery that drifted through her mind as the song played, the idyllic Italian countryside, the narrow streets of Greece, exploring Spain with her lover.

She twirled dreamily, imagining dancing with her supposed lover on a dimly lit balcony, but suddenly a hand caught hers, twisting her back into a warm embrace deftly. She found herself pressed gently against Hannibal's chest, his hands settling at her waist, hers instinctively linking around his neck.

"I see you found my record player," he said softly. "I was using it as a therapy tool but if you like it this much...I'll keep it around."

His black button up shirt seemed so harsh against his face. Suddenly he wasn't so imposing, his face softened by the rich darkness of his shirt, damp bangs falling across his forehead. She pressed closer to him, swaying with him slowly.

"You did say you wanted to learn how to dance, and you need music for that," she reminded him, but he only smiled at her.

"I'd rather watch you."

Look at him, she thought. Just look at him. Listen to him. There's no reason to be scared of him or with him. He's completely head over heels for you. He's so genuine.

She couldn't form a response, blushing at the thought of dancing with him the way she'd been imagining. He seemed like the perfect candidate; classy, tall, strong, devilishly handsome, and the means to take her to all the places in Europe she dreamed of. Traveling with him would be like touring the world with royalty. Royalty with benefits.

He leaned in toward her, questioning, almost as if he was asking permission to kiss her. She hesitated, her thoughts still racing at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could be her lover she'd always been looking for. Granted, she told herself, she still had a lot to learn about him. But he fit in her pictures so perfectly. As if he was a chameleon. Made to fit. Made to blend into her life.

His nose brushed hers and she relented easily, basking in the heat of his kisses. She'd never felt such a blind desire for a person and it nearly engulfed her, burning her from the inside out as he drew her closer. She wondered to herself if this was what a real relationship was supposed to feel like or if this was a fling that had started purely out of the mutual curiosity between them, but the way his fingers tangled in the back of her hair and his hand burned at the small of her back made her think maybe yes, it was more than just a fling.

At least she hoped it was.

* * *

The day went by far too quickly after that and soon she found herself curled up in the heated seats of Hannibal's car, absently watching the city pass by. The city had cleaned up most streets but she figured work would be painfully boring the next day since more snow was expected.

Hannibal seemed loathe to drop her off, pointing out that he wasn't fond of her living alone and walking everywhere in the cold.

"I've done it for years. Nobody's going to bother me," she reassured him. "Besides. Most of the time if I wear tall boots I have a knife that I hide in the top."

"I suppose that's better than nothing. When will I see you again?"

She wasn't overly surprised at his question, but it threw her off guard. She had expected him to drop her off and maybe ask later, wait a few days or something to get her on edge, but it looked like he was all in. No more dancing around it. He really wanted her around.

"I mean...I have no life," she shrugged. "All I do is work and go home unless Alana has something to do but she's been so busy I don't really think I'll see her for a while..."

"Do you have any hobbies outside your house?"

"Not anymore. Like I said, I used to have ballet but since that's out of the question I don't really leave except for work and to get groceries."

"Then come with me to the gym. I like to swim, the pool is heated and it's usually empty during the winter. It would be something to get you out of the house," he said, finally pulling into her driveway. "It's not far from here, if you want to walk after you close the store."

"So tomorrow afternoon? I don't have anything remotely okay to wear. I don't even have a bathing suit."

"Don't worry about that. I just want to see you again regardless."

She gave him a warm smile, her heart swelling in her chest. Jesus Christ, this felt nice.

"Sure. I think that would be fine," she chirped. "I do need to get out of the house."

He gave her a quick kiss and they reluctantly said their goodbyes before she slogged through the snow to her porch, waving to him as he disappeared down the street.

The familiar smell of potting soil and green leaves washed over her as she opened her door and she felt a deep calm settle over her. His house was nice, super extravagant, but she'd missed her own house. Hers was just so much more cozy, so welcoming compared to his.

She spent her afternoon potting new cuttings and making more, her tile kitchen counter dusted in rooting powder and pruning seal. Alana would get a kick out of this, she thought. But she couldn't bring herself to call her. As much as she wanted to gush, it seemed like Alana wouldn't take to it kindly after their last conversation. She sure as hell wasn't going to tell Dan or Angie at work; they'd just use it as ammo for teasing her.

It dawned on her then that she really, really had no one to talk to other than Alana, and she was very suddenly overcome with fear that she might push her away by getting further involved with Hannibal.

She forced herself to look at it rationally. Surely Alana was more mature than that, more understanding than that. She may have been interested in Hannibal but Nora couldn't see a man coming between them that easily.

After she had arranged her new pots to her liking, she settled into her bed, picking a new book to read that she'd picked up at a thrift store. "We Have Always Lived in the Castle" had stuck out to her on the shelf and as she delved into the first few pages, she found herself quite intrigued.

A family tragedy, poisoned by arsenic. Two girls and their uncle living in isolation, away from a village that taunted them and ostracized them for what had happened. The main protagonist, a girl named Merricat, dabbled in magic to protect her and her sister. Nora wasn't sure what the danger they alluded to was yet and eventually reached a good stopping point, snapping the book shut and curling into her quilts comfortably before slipping into a light sleep.

* * *

After the incident at Hannibal's, the icy fear that crept over her body was almost familiar.

She hadn't had a single dream all night but suddenly she was standing in the snowy fields in Wolf Trap, twilight bathing the landscape in gloomy purples and blues. The cold stung her skin and she realized she was standing nearly knee deep in snow, dressed only in one of Hannibal's button down shirts and a pair of underwear.

A strange cry rang out and she whirled, finding herself at the edge of a dense tree line. She searched frantically for the source of the sound, her eyes flitting over the dark trees, until she made out the shape of a black stag trotting out into the field.

It bleated at her again, the sound piercing her ears. She took a wary step back as it neared, its pace increasing, prompting her to turn and run when it showed no sign of slowing down.

She stumbled clumsily in the snow, screaming at the very top of her lungs for help, but no sound came out. It's going to kill me, she thought, screaming so hard she felt her throat burn raw. But she couldn't make a single noise and there was obviously not a single soul around for miles.

A quick glance over her shoulder told her that it was too close now, there was no escaping, but she still felt compelled to run even though her entire body was screaming at her to rest. Her lungs burned, her legs ached so hard that even though they were numb from the snow she could feel every stride.

Thinking she could maybe confuse it, she veered to the side, scrabbling through a dead hedgerow. She could still hear it behind her, but the farther she ran, the quieter it got.

She chanced another look back and saw that it hadn't been charging her.

The creature she'd grown so tired of seeing was standing a the far edge of the field, staring blankly down at the animal running straight toward it. She could feel herself scream at the sight of it, falling back into the snow in shock, but again she heard nothing other than the sound of snow crunching and her own breathing.

It turned to look at her then, and even from all the way across the field she could feel the power of its gaze.

She struggled to her feet, ready to run again, but suddenly it was behind her and its arms wrapped around her tightly. It was as cold as the snow, maybe even colder, and its skin felt exactly like she remembered. Leathery, dead. Wrong. She kicked at it, struggling, but it was completely unfazed.

It turned her around roughly, positioning her between it and the stag. The stag barreled through the snow at them but when it saw her trapped in the creature's hands it slid to a halt, bleating again, stamping its foot angrily.

The creature was taunting the stag.

There was a wordless exchange between the two, the creature pulling her closer to its too long body, the stag keening at them from just a few feet away. She hung wordlessly in the creature's hands, fear numbing her mind.

When the stag charged again, she knew there was nothing she could do.

Its antlers pierced her effortlessly, but she felt no pain.

After a moment, she felt herself drop to the ground, the snow framing her body. She lifted her head weakly to see that the creature had been gored as well; it grasped at its body, shaking its head at the stag in disbelief, blood like pitch pouring dramatically out of the wounds. Betrayed. Was it trying to negotiate something with the stag? What had gone wrong between them?

She kicked the covers off of herself when she came to, drenched in a cold sweat. Her alarm clock blinked 4am at her from her night stand and she groaned, wishing that she could call someone to calm her nerves, but that was obviously out of the question. She would just have to suffer and wonder what her dreams were trying to tell her.

Hannibal would probably have advice, she thought, but she didn't want to press him for it. He wasn't her doctor and she didn't want that to take over their relationship. But she really didn't have another option.

Desperate to calm down, she took an allergy pill, knowing it would lull her to sleep. But even that wasn't strong enough. She tossed and turned until she finally decided to just get up for the morning and make herself some tea, propping up in her living room to watch a documentary or two until it was time to get ready for work. But she couldn't resist googling creatures that resembled the one in her dreams.

She came across a few purely fictional creatures, like a "leshen" from some video game about a white-haired guy who hunted monsters, but that wasn't quite it. It wasn't until she came across the description of a wendigo that she had a eureka moment.

Ashen skin, gaunt, skeletal, like a dead man walking. Where the antlers came from, she wasn't sure, but that fit her monster and she stuck with it. She'd heard of them before but had never really had a picture to go along with it until then and the thought of it terrified her. Had she pissed off a spirit somewhere?

Her spiritual beliefs, though she was disconnected from religion, still hung around and she thought about cleansing her house but she laughed at her own recommendation. It was just a weird fluke, she told herself. Something she must have seen or read that she didn't remember. It was only scary because of appearance.

That didn't stop the thought from rattling around in her head all day, though. The idea of a wendigo haunted her. A greedy, excessive cannibal. Why would something like that be pursuing her? Or was it?

Just talk to Hannibal about it tonight, she told herself. He'll know what to do.


	10. Chapter 10

Again, the news was on at work and it was all Nora could do to tune it out. Chesapeake Ripper this, Copycat Killer that. Something about the FBI agent that had been killed in the observatory. More about Will Graham and his ongoing investigation.

Angie was engrossed in the whole story.

"You know they said that girl was sliced up like a ham? And he took her kidneys!" she told Nora dramatically, stabbing a silk flower into her foam block for emphasis.

Nora shrugged, hoping to bail out of the conversation. She hated discussing these things with anyone; it seemed so disrespectful to the victims. "You know I'm not a fan of the news," she grumbled.

"I know, it's just everywhere right now. Can't escape it. Don't you get nervous walking around on your own all the time?"

"Not really."

"She's got her a sugar daddy to drive her around now!" Dan called from the back. "Have you seen him? I bet he's a mafia man. Like Russian mafia."

Nora flopped her head in her hands. This would never, ever end now that one of them had seen him.

"Jesus, Dan, he's a doctor. Of course he's got money!" she groaned, cutting Angie a look when she ooooooh'd at her. "And it's a very mutual thing. He's not buying me stuff."

The doorbell chimed and Nora shot up, hoping for anyone to distract Dan and Angie from their teasing.

A well dressed man stumbled in out of the snow, carrying a sort of flat gift box with a bow on it. Nora immediately tensed. If Hannibal had sent a gift today, of all days, while both Dan and Angie were there it would be her undoing.

"I have a delivery," the man started, and she groaned internally. Please be from Angie's husband, she thought. Not here. Please. "Eleanora?"

"Oooooh he put your whole naaaaaame, it must be special," Angie jabbed as Nora waved over the delivery man meekly.

"He's just proper," Nora shot back. She immediately recognized a local boutique's embossed seal on the box and sighed heavily, realizing it must be clothes of some sort.

The delivery man gave her a polite nod and slipped out the door before she could thank him, but Dan had already stuck his head out of the back, peering around her anxiously.

"You gonna open it or not?" he asked. "I have to know."

"I was going to just take it home. You don't even know it's from him."

"Who else would it be?"

"My best friend?" Nora said incredulously. "Christ, it's like you guys think I'm a hermit."

They both raised their eyebrows at her.

"Okay, fine, yes I am but still," she relented. "If it'll get you off my back I'll open it."

She popped the tape on the box, peeking inside quickly before finally opening it when she deemed it was acceptable. "See, it's just a bathing suit. He wanted me to go with him to the pool tonight," she said, briefly showing them, then snapping the box shut again.

"It is the dead of winter. How in the world did he get that?"

"That looked see-through!"

The needling didn't stop. All afternoon, they peppered her with questions. How old was he? Where was he from? What kind of accent was that? Had she been to his house yet? What was THAT like? And as much as it warmed her heart that they were so interested, she quickly became exasperated with them. It was like a middle school crush to them.

As soon as the sun began to go down, she felt relieved. That meant it was nearly 5. She had completely cleaned the counter and the workbench and had taken to sweeping loose flakes of green foam out of the nooks beneath the counter when Dan finally told her to go, knowing she was anxious to meet Hannibal.

Nora nearly bolted out of the door, box tucked under her arm tightly.

* * *

She made a brief stop by her house to grab a bag of just-in-case things; a towel, her phone charger, a hair brush. Just in case she ended up going home with him again. Her hand paused over her boot knife questioningly. She wasn't going far, surely she wouldn't need it, but Angie reiterating the fiasco at the observatory had her on edge and she clipped it into the inside of her purse just to reassure herself. Nobody had ever bothered her, she told herself. But just in case.

She could barely make out the tiniest of snowflakes falling, illuminated only by the streetlights she passed under. The early night of winter had settled over the city and she found herself picking up her pace, nervous, even though she had been this way many times before.

Even the wind was still, she noticed. The whole city seemed to have come to a silent halt. She brushed it off, attributing her anxiety to her lack of sleep, but her stomach churned nonetheless.

The gym in the distance consoled her only slightly. She hurried toward it, snow sticking to her hair and lashes now as a light breeze stung her cheeks. Her steps crunched through the fresh layer of snow and the sound cutting through the quiet was nearly deafening, but she paused when she heard an echo of her steps.

When she stopped, it stopped. For every two steps she took, she counted four behind her in a strange syncopation. She was feet from the door of the gym, paused just before the sidewalk, her hand edging toward the knife tucked into her purse but she had to chance a look.

She whirled, backing toward the doors of the gym, her eyes sweeping over the black stag only briefly before her heel clipped the curb and she fell to her back, gasping when the fall knocked the wind from her. Her only thought was to cover her head and curl into a desperate ball; it was far too close for her to try to run and she struggled for the air to scream as an unmistakable bleat scored the silence.

No, not a bleat, she realized.

A bark. And a whine.

She peered between her arms and a cold nose punched her in the forehead, followed by another whine. A sleek German Shepard was circling her, whimpering, licking her hands as she tried to right herself.

"You little shit," she breathed, struggling to her feet. The dog bounded around her, black fur shining in the light from the gym. He had a collar, she noticed, with a name on it. He was far too healthy to be a stray so she ushered him away after giving him a good dose of petting. "Go home. I bet you live behind here."

She gathered her bag and her box, pacing outside the doors to harness her nerves before she finally went inside. Condensate from the heated pool had gathered on the glass doors and dripped to the floor, and she nearly slipped in the puddle on the floor, leading to another quick session of reigning in her hammering pulse before she stumbled on into the gym.

"Get it together," she murmured to herself, following signs to a stark tile locker room.

Again, she noticed how quiet her surroundings were. Everyone seemed to be gone for today or at least there was a lull in traffic. This was fine, she thought, as it meant she had the entire locker room for herself.

She took advantage of this, rinsing her face to remove her eyeliner before finally unveiling her gift. He had good taste, she mused, unraveling her new bathing suit from the tissue paper and packaging. A little sultry, maybe, but in a very muted and downplayed sort of way.

And it fit her like a glove. She twirled around in front of the mirror, wondering how in the world he was able to judge her fit so well. The back was a little low for her tastes but the high neck and crochet cutouts over her sternum and waist made her feel surprisingly good about herself. It gave her a shape, she thought, which was exceptionally nice considering people had always commented on how she was so thin.

She piled her hair up loosely before heading toward the pool, her heart fluttering. This time, she wanted Hannibal to see her. She felt so good about herself for once and she wanted to show off a little. Flirt a little harder, maybe.

The doors to the pool were frosted with humidity but she could hear a faint murmuring, some sort of heated conversation. One-sided, she noticed. Definitely not Hannibal. She followed the sound to another set of doors on the far side of the pool labeled simply "Sauna".

Warily, she pushed a door open, her eyes traveling over a dim, hazy room before settling on what she could only describe as a literal crucifixion. She stopped dead in her tracks, struggling to make out faces from where she stood, but she recognized Hannibal's shape easily. His arms were bound tightly to something and his neck craned harshly from the strain of the noose at his neck. Was he bleeding?

A man paced in front of him, waving what looked like a knife around dramatically. She still couldn't make out what they were saying but that was out of the question now - her pulse was pounding in her ears so hard that it didn't matter.

Alana, she thought. Call Alana. Call 911. Call somebody.

She made a break for the locker room, but the metal door frame shut with a loud slam and she knew she had limited time. There was no way he didn't hear that. She fumbled with her purse, nearly dropping her phone, her fingers dialing Alana by memory. Each ring sent her heart rate soaring higher and higher until finally she heard Alana answer.

"I need you to get to the gym over by the university!" she whispered, backing into a toilet stall with her purse.

"Are you with Hannibal? Nora, you need to get out of there, we're already on our way-"

"I can't get out! He knows I'm here! And I can't leave Hannibal!"

The locker room door burst open and she stifled a gasp, climbing up onto the toilet. She had absolutely no chance, she thought. She was going to die. Hannibal was going to die. Silent sobs racked her body but she had the presence of mind to at least pull her knife, pointing it at the stall door with as much bravado as she could muster.

Alana's voice rang out from her phone, frantic, bouncing around in the stall and she quickly tried to silence it but she heard the man laugh.

"You're really bad at this," he chuckled, kicking the stall door open easily. His chest was smeared with fresh blood. "You can be my first victim as the new and improved Chesapeake Ripper. Would you like that?"

She shook her head, openly sobbing now. Alana screamed at her from the phone, her voice rattling the small speakers, but the man just laughed at her again.

"You would be so famous," he continued. "But not because you're pretty."

Finally, he drew close enough and she lunged at him, her knife coming down hard on his shoulder and crunching against bone.

He roared in pain, swinging at her wildly. She barely had time to react to him before she felt his knuckles across her cheekbone, her glasses shattering against her face as she crumbled between the toilet and stall, phone skittering away from her.

Whatever else he said, she missed it. Her head throbbed, her vision blurred without her glasses, but she could see him tear the knife out of his shoulder. Suddenly his hand was tangled in her hair and he was dragging her, pausing only to stomp her phone before hauling her out of the locker room and down the hall.

She could feel patches of hair tearing from her scalp and she screamed, clawing at his hand and kicking desperately as he dragged her slowly, agonizingly all the way around the pool and eventually depositing her in front of Hannibal. His knee came down hard between her shoulder blades and he crushed the breath out of her, snatching one of her wrists. She could barely see Hannibal out of the corner of her eye, balanced precariously on an overturned bucket.

"Is this yours?" the man asked, yanking her hair to make her turn her face up in the light. Hannibal strained to shake his head, hoping to deter the man from hurting her further, but she could feel him wrapping her hair around his palm tightly. "You don't have to lie to me. Remember? What were you going to do with her anyway, doctor? She's skin and bones. Pretty face but damn, you can't do anything with that. And look at all these tattoos..."

She shrieked when the tip of her own knife came down on the base of her neck, twisting ugly trails through her tattoo.

"All this hair..." he mused, yanking it again for emphasis. She tried desperately to trap his hands but he wrestled her arms beneath his knees, leaning his full weight into her. "I bet you're proud of it. Were you going to donate it? You seem like that kind of person."

Chunks of her hair fluttered down to the tile beside her. He was going to disfigure her, one way or another.

Eventually, he pulled her up to her feet again, fingers still buried in her shortened hair. "I'm taking too long. Your boyfriend here, he's got two choices." He dragged her up the steps, forcing her to stand in front of Hannibal with her head pulled back tightly. "He can either bleed out slowly or kick the bucket and just go to sleep really quick. His choice. He's been bleeding for a few minutes now."

He was right. Blood had trailed down Hannibal's arms, even dripping down to his feet and the bucket was nearly slick with it. She whimpered, scratching at the stranger's hands desperately.

The man couldn't resist waxing poetic for a moment, something about his grand scheme, something about Will Graham she didn't care to catch as he carved aimlessly into her ribs. Hannibal's eyes fixed on hers intensely; this was her chance. Make a plan. Do something. Anything.

She trapped the man's hands against her head, giving her just enough slack to twist out and back under his arm. He howled when she wrenched his hand and wrist, dropping her, but before she could escape he had charged her and knocked her to the floor again. Her head cracked against the tile and she struggled to gain her bearings, swiping her nails at his face desperately, but he was so enraged that he didn't even register the pain as he crawled on top of her.

He threatened her, something about making her watch Hannibal bleed out, shaking her violently with the knife edge digging into her throat. But she was trying to make out what Hannibal was whispering.

"Beside you," Hannibal wheezed, picking himself up on his toes for air. "Nora, beside you."

There, just inches away, the man's silver hunting knife from earlier glinted at her. He was still screaming at her, then at Hannibal, gouging her boot knife into the side of her neck. He had completely forgotten about his own knife.

He raised up to hit her and that was her chance. She swung hard, stabbing him once in the bicep. He dropped her boot knife, gasping, but before he had time to react she swung again. This time it sank deep into the side of his neck at a harsh forward angle, blood spewing out immediately as she pulled the knife back. The gurgling noise he made would haunt her; he grasped at his neck, astounded, air bubbling through the deep wound as he fell to the side.

He wasn't done, though. He lunged at Hannibal, slipping in his own blood trail, but just far enough that he managed to knock the bucket from beneath Hannibal's feet.

Time slowed to a near halt as Nora scrambled to get up, struggling on the slick floor, but suddenly there was a lot of shouting and another man pushed past her. He was screaming for an ambulance to someone, lifting Hannibal up the best he could to keep him from strangling. Jack, she thought. She recognized his voice from the TV.

There was a flurry of people and she felt herself being pulled away before someone scooped her up, carrying her out into a blinding blur of red and blue lights. She wailed, fighting them, knowing Hannibal was still trapped, but then Alana was beside her and consoling her as best she could and she let herself breathe momentarily.

"He's going to be okay," Alana was saying. "He's fine. He just lost a lot of blood. Nora? Nora, listen to me."

They stuffed her into an ambulance, the bright white light blinding her temporarily. Antiseptic stung her back and her side and she felt the faint bite of an IV as Alana climbed in behind her, sitting beside her to brush loose hair out of her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, picking hair off her. "Nora, I need you to talk to me."

"He just cut me I think," Nora murmured. "But Hannibal..."

"They're taking care of him. You need to tell me what happened."

* * *

At some point, Nora found herself in the hospital, barely sentient. They had given her pain medication and some sort of anxiety pill before the police swarmed her room, swabbing everything from her nails and face to the wounds on her back and ribs. She was questioned, again, before they let her go to be stitched up and bathed.

She caught a quick glimpse of her blurry reflection in the bathroom and realized she was soaked in blood, definitely not hers. Thankfully, the tranquilizer had her numb, and the sight of it was not a surprise. A nurse scoured her until her skin was pink and the water ran clear at her feet.

Nurses milled around in her room, checking her wounds and dressings, and even Alana was in and out of her room with Jack but Nora was only vaguely aware of her presence. Eventually they cleared out and the hospital quieted for the night.

Hannibal. Where was Hannibal?

She struggled to her door, peeking out into the dim hallway. A guard napped in his chair at the room next to hers but the coast was clear; that had to be Hannibal's room.

Slowly, she crept through the door, shutting it quietly behind her. Hannibal seemed to be soundly asleep but he blinked up at her the second she reached the side of his bed. A purplish bruise had bloomed around his neck and she figured it hurt him to speak or he would have said something; there was a wounded disconnect in his eyes that she could tell even without her glasses was eating at him but he still gave her a weak smile, reaching over to squeeze her fingers gently.

The stitches on his wrists were at least 2 or 2 and a half inches long. She gasped when she spotted them, turning his hand over to inspect them, but he was more interested in what was left of her hair.

"I know it looks like shit," she murmured. "Alana said she would fix it for me. I can barely put it up in a ponytail."

He shook his head.

Carefully, she pushed herself over the rails of the bed, tucking into his side. He curled his arm around her tightly and sighed, nosing her forehead. He felt unusually cold, she noticed,so she tucked his blankets around him before eventually drifting off to a dreamless sleep with her head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.


	11. Chapter 11

Nora was released from the hospital before Hannibal under the condition that she would seek therapy for what had happened. She hadn't really gotten around to processing it and she was sure that at some point it would crash down on her in glorious fashion, but it was easy to make hollow promises so she could escape and let Alana take her to her house.

Alana talked her out of returning to the hospital, promising her that it was for her own safety, but Nora wasn't quite sure what to do with herself once she was alone again. She rooted out her backup glasses (even though they were a prescription behind) just so she could navigate her house and struggled to trim her hair to an acceptable shape. Her nails, she lamented, were broken and split and she hated filing down the pretty almond shape she'd worked so hard on maintaining.

But she didn't dare leave the house. Not with her black eye and tattered hair and bruises.

Jack Crawford himself stopped by for yet another round of questioning, informing her that her work was taken care of and that she didn't need to return for at least a week or two and that Hannibal was being released with a temporary security detail. When she pressed him for information on what happened, he quickly deflected.

So she waited. She slept for a few hours at a time, only stirring to mill about her house aimlessly before returning to her bed discouraged and numb. With her phone destroyed, she had no way of reaching out to Alana or Hannibal.

Would he even come for her?

How many days had it been now?

When the doorbell finally rang, she found herself skittering to the door, flinging it open harder than she meant. She had only a brief moment to gather that it was Hannibal before his lips were on hers, his hands cupping her face tightly and scorching her skin with his familiar heat.

"Nora," he said softly, resting his cheek against her hair. "Nora, I would have greater peace of mind if you'd come with me. At least until all of this has quieted down."

"What do you mean?"

"Stay with me. Just until I'm sure you'll be safe here."

She didn't hesitate.

* * *

Sleep came easily when she was tucked into his side. They dozed comfortably, longer than they meant to, through the night and deep into the next afternoon until finally he woke her to tend to her stitches and make a light lunch.

He trimmed her hair evenly, bringing it just barely above her shoulders. She stared at herself blankly in his bathroom mirror as he brushed out tangles, thinking to herself how pitiful she looked, but when he noticed her forlorn look he curled his arms around her gently.

"You are no less exquisite," he murmured, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "It's impossible for any man to mar you. In spirit, maybe, but I feel you are stronger than that."

"I guess I just haven't absorbed it all."

"And there's no need to. Not all at once, at least. You and I went through two very different experiences but our single commonality is that we both nearly died. You can't simply move on after such an event. In fact, I'd compare it to some of the stages of grief. Disbelief or denial, anger, depression, acceptance. You may go through these stages quickly or slowly or maybe even alternating between them at times, but the important thing is that you complete all of them on your own time."

He disappeared from her only to begin drawing her a bath, placing fresh towels beside the tub. She barely noticed as she mulled over his words over and over.

"Fortunately, we can go through it all together," he continued, tugging her hand gently to break her daze. "Come, soak for a while. It will help your bruises."

"Hannibal..."

"Yes?"

Tears stung the corners of her eyes and she stared down at the water, focusing on the ripples bouncing back and forth across the bath. She wasn't sure what to say; she didn't feel bad that the attacker in particular had died, it was the premise of it all. That there was literally no other way out of it than for someone to die. He tucked her hair behind her ear when she didn't speak, brushing his fingers beneath her chin, but she wouldn't look him in the eyes.

"No one will ever fault you for what happened. You saved yourself. You saved me. You did nothing wrong, Nora," he said firmly.

"I know, I just can't get it out of my head... I keep telling myself that there was no other way and I know that I had to defend myself but I keep thinking that maybe if I could have just stalled him for a little longer that Jack would have been there and he could have done something different."

"You can't dwell on what-ifs and maybes. That kind of thinking will only poison you. You will wither and fade away, as will the past, if you can't keep yourself in the present."

Carefully, he pulled her sweater over her head, urging her toward the tub. She didn't shy from him and his eyes never lingered; there was a mature understanding between them and she felt comfortable with him even like this, even with her wounds and bruises and porcelain skin exposed.

She eased into the water slowly and he sat beside her on the tile ledge, splashing water over her shoulders to get rid of loose hair trimmings. "Nobody has told me what really happened," she sighed, wincing when he began cleaning the stitches at the base of her neck. "I got swarmed with all these questions and Jack Crawford even came to my house and I really don't even know what day it is. I couldn't call you because my phone got broken and Alana has been AWOL..."

"To be quite frank, Will Graham was indirectly trying to kill me. You were caught in the crossfire."

"Then why was that guy going on about being the new ripper? What does that have to do with you?"

Hannibal pursed his lips for a moment. She could tell that for once, even he was searching for the right words.

"Will...is projecting onto the people closest to him, in a way. He is so far withdrawn from his own actions, so absorbed into the minds of the people he was supposed to be analyzing that he can no longer distinguish his delusions from reality. I feel he has convinced himself that I am to blame and maybe this was a sort of revenge for whatever misgivings he thinks I've done, but he's my patient. He's also my friend. I could never bring myself to hurt him in the ways he thinks I have. The man he sent after me was an orderly at the state hospital where he's being held. I'm assuming the man must have had some sort of obsession with the case to begin with or Will must have given him information."

She sat silently, running through the situation over and over in her mind. All of this, she thought. All of this was because of his own best friend. How crazy could one man be?

Lightly, she traced the still-purple bruise that circled Hannibal's neck. He tilted his head back slightly so that she could see, his eyes still on hers, and suddenly she realized why he had seemed so internally wounded in the hospital. He was mourning. Grieving the loss of someone he had believed was truly his friend, who he still had faith in even after all the allegations had come to light. Utterly betrayed, in the worst sense of the word.

"You feel like he's physically gone, don't you?" she asked, lazily letting her fingers trail across the warm skin of his chest. "Like he's dead. Because now you know you have to cut him out of your life completely."

"Yes."

"You know you don't have to act so strong in front of me. I'm sure what you're feeling is a whole lot worse than what I'm dealing with."

He gave her a tired smile, clasping her hand to his chest. "Don't diminish your own pain, Nora," he murmured. "As I said. We may have two very different situations, but we can work through them together."

* * *

There was a sort of solace between them after that night that Nora became immersed in. It was dangerously easy to get lost in him and the things he showed her, all the hobbies he had and the seemingly infinite knowledge he held. She found herself lounging against the shelves of his library with him, sipping tea as they talked about the history Paris. They basked in the sun on the chaise lounge in his office, curtains thrown back, skin to skin. He taught her how to cook, how to draw with charcoal, how to make consommé. When they ventured to her house to water her plants and let her check on everything, he spent hours perusing her collections of oddities and crystals and books.

She came to dread the day she was supposed to be back at work. It was soon, she knew, but the days had completely blurred together. She felt as if she had been staying with him for months even thought it likely had been about a week and a half. He replaced her phone and her glasses before he "released her back into the wild" as he called it. But even when she did finally go back, when her black eye was gone and she felt safe enough to go, she still felt completely absorbed into his world.

The 8 to 5 passed so quickly that she barely absorbed how close it was getting to Valentine's day until Dan started setting up pre-orders and the arch-typical red and white and pink decorations. It occurred to her that she had not heard a single peep out of Alana. For weeks now.

It took days to get a call back but when she finally heard from her, it was more than a relief for both of them.

"How are you feeling? Mentally?" Alana asked her.

"I'm okay for now, I guess. I've just kind of...not been thinking about it." Nora flopped back on her bed, staring up at her canopy wistfully. "I should have told you I wasn't home."

"Yeah, well, you didn't have a phone. I'm just glad Hannibal answers his. I'd rather you be there than alone. Speaking of which..."

Nora cringed, covering her face with a pillow as if she could hide her embarrassment over the phone.

"...I'm sorry if I sounded short the last time we talked. When I called you about taking care of Will's place. Not talking to you for so long and then this whole...whatever it is that happened just really shook me up and I hate that I ever acted that way toward you," Alana blurted.

"I didn't think it was that serious. I mean you sounded a little miffed but that was it."

"Truth be told, I was kind of mad but it was a jealous, shallow mad and I just wanted to make sure you knew I'm not upset at you or anything. I guess... I don't know. I've known him for so long and we're both going through this thing with Will and I was seeking him out for the wrong reasons. I really can't imagine anything good coming out of something like that. He likes you. He thinks you hung the moon. I talked to him Monday morning about coming back to help with some questioning but we ended up talking for a long time about how good you've been for him."

Nora had to remind herself to shut her mouth, what she was hearing had her gaping at the ceiling.

"Okay, I wasn't going to go that far with it but if you're good with it, then I am," she bumbled, starstruck. "What do you mean 'good for him'?"

"You know exactly what I mean. You make him happy. And you're keeping him grounded through this whole mess. You're a good person."

"Alana..."

"Take the compliment, Jesus Christ. By the way, he mentioned something about a dinner party. You might want to brush up on your etiquette. When he says 'dinner party' he really means black tie affair."

 ****I just wanted to say thanks everyone for the reviews and follows/favorites! I've been slow updating because of a few personal things but I think things are settling down now. Thanks so much! The next chapter will be more story and less character development, I promise!****


	12. Chapter 12

After Valentine's Day had passed and March neared, Hannibal revealed his grand dinner party plan to Nora. Something about hiring help for the night and having his den cleared out for a big display and harpsichord playing and lavish things she struggled to comprehend.

"I have absolutely nothing that would be appropriate to wear," she told him, following him as he flittered about his kitchen. "I'm not exaggerating. I've never even been to something like this."

"Then we'll fix that. I was going to ask you to come to New York with me this weekend. We'll leave Friday when you get off work, stay until Sunday afternoon. There are some things I'd like to pick up for the party and while we're there we'll get you fitted for a dress."

"I mean, I can buy my own dress..."

"But you won't have to. Just come with me."

He didn't have to beg.

* * *

They took a train to New York, something else that Nora had never experienced before. Hannibal seemed out of place even in the first class section with his pristine suit and austere features, making Nora feel like she stuck out like a sore thumb, and the way he subtly fawned over her the entire time didn't help.

The first class didn't stop there. Of course he'd booked a penthouse suite in Manhattan. She couldn't imagine him staying in anything less. Still, the shock factor was real; she was overwhelmed at literally everything about it. The three walls of bay windows, the view, the marble bathrooms and real four-post bed that felt like sleeping on an actual cloud. She wandered the suite while Hannibal made arrangements for the night, checking out all the art morderne decor as she went, but she still felt immeasurably wrong just being there. Her reflection in the bay windows made her cringe at herself.

He absolutely did not seem to mind, however. After the first night, he whisked her off to some ridiculously luxe boutique, leaving her to the mercy of the staff while he went about looking for dinnerware elsewhere.

Obviously, he'd said something to them before he left. She noticed immediately that they were trying far too hard to butter her up and her "assistant", a wrinkly ferret-like woman with her hair pulled back too tightly, was terrible at acting like she really wanted to tend to Nora. It was the tattoos and the questionable clothes, Nora knew, but that didn't make her feel much better about the situation.

They presented her with an endless stream of dresses, measuring her, twirling her around in a set of mirrors that projected endless images of herself around her. "You do have such an easy shape to work with," the woman told her, eyeballing her figure. "You're just a rail, dear. Although your hips are a little...wide."

Nora rolled her eyes so many times at all the woman's backhanded comments that she was sure her eyes would get stuck in the back of her head.

Eventually, after hours of browsing, Nora fell in love with what the woman described as a "simple black dress". When she unzipped it out of the protective bag Nora gasped; it shimmered ever so softly in the bright lights, just barely enough to be noticeable, and the way it flowed gracefully to the floor reminded her of something a 1940s movie star would wear. It had a shallow scoop neckline and seemed reserved and very modest, which was what she was going for, so she asked to try it on and the woman obliged rather begrudgingly. But, when they pulled it out of the bag, Nora realized that it was backless and her heart dropped.

"That's gonna show your..." the woman started, motioning wildly at the back of Nora's neck. "The man you came with said you uh...were in an accident and all and I don't see any bad scars but your..."

"I don't care about the that. It's just...a little revealing I guess? I don't know, I'm not sure how he would feel about it," Nora murmured, but the strings of delicate Swarovski crystals that draped across the open back admittedly had her more than interested. So opulent. Surely he could appreciate that. "And I don't know what his budget is..."

"Don't worry about money. If you like it, try it on."

Surprisingly, it fit almost perfectly straight off the hanger. It clung to Nora's body like a second skin before flaring out softly at the floor and the more she looked at herself in it, the more she fell in love with it. She felt sexy in the most opulent sense of the word, like she belonged at the right hand of a villain in a James Bond movie. The strings of crystal hung very slightly away from her skin and glittered like stars, mesmerizing her as she turned in front of the mirrors.

Nora could feel Hannibal's gaze on her the minute he entered the room. She whirled, immediately starting to apologize for how ridiculous it was, but he simply shook his head at her.

"I told you to pick whatever you liked," he chided her, circling her slowly. "Stunning is such a weak word. Ravishing, I think, is more fitting."

The way his eyes slid over her sent a violent chill through her. There was a brief darkness that passed over his face that made her nearly recoil from his touch, but a second glance had her questioning that she'd seen anything at all; he was simply admiring her, inspecting the dress wistfully, as if he was picturing her beside him at the dinner party.

"Is this what you want?" he asked.

"I...is it that kind of event? Is this too much? I think it's over the top."

"Nora, dear, if this is what you want then we will make it 'that kind of event'. Do you need it altered?"

The assistant attempted to speak up but Hannibal shot her a look that could have burned the entire city to the ground. She withered away from him, circling around behind Nora nervously.

"If you need it, we will have it altered back in Baltimore," he quipped. "Come. It's time for lunch."

* * *

After lunch, Hannibal offered for her to have her hair professionally cut, citing that he'd not done a very good job and that he felt she deserved a nice salon treatment if she so desired. She agreed rather begrudgingly this time, unsure of how to accept so much in the way of gifts and pampering. Part of her really, really loved it, but another part of her hated feeling like she was becoming his pet.

He dropped her off again and away he went in search of something, what she didn't know this time, but he assured her she'd be quite happy with what he came back with.

Terrified of losing even more of her hair, she had her stylist only trim it evenly and give her some soft bangs to frame her face and eyes. It turned into a sort of long bob that sat just at her shoulders and she stared at herself the entire time the man snipped away, unfamiliar with the person looking back from the mirror. The bangs softened her sharp, fine features and made her feel a little younger but in a way it just made her feel even more unfit for Hannibal. Too wild. Too unrefined.

"Do you like it?" the stylist asked her, ruffling her bangs so that they fell across her forehead. "You can wear them down. Or push them to the side. Down kind of makes you look like some sort of indie folk singer, you know?"

"I do, it's just so different," she told him, sighing. "My hair used to be all the way down to my waist. It feels light and it looks so odd."

"What happened? Did you just get tired of it? I know maintaining hair that long is time consuming. And yours is so thick, even though it's very fine. I imagined it tangled a lot."

She shrugged nervously. "I guess I was tired of it," she murmured, wondering how much hair they'd swept off the floor of the sauna after that night. "Maybe it's the color too? Does it wash me out?"

"It's a little harsh. Is it natural?"

"It's always been this color."

He hummed, circling her chair thoughtfully, tilting her head back and forth in the light. "You could do a red color. Would you like that? I guess yours is nearly natural ebony but it's got some red to it. Just something really subtle, like a super dark maroon or a burgundy that's barely enough to notice. It'll pop. Or! Wine-colored melt. If it grows out you won't have roots and if you don't like it you can grow it out and cut it off and that'll be it!" he gushed, fumbling with a book of color swatches. "Look. Like this. It's so dark it's almost black but in the right light..."

"I can't tell you how much I love that," she blurted. "You sure I can pull that off?"

"Oh god yes. Was that your husband who brought you in here?"

She nearly snorted, biting back an embarrassed laugh. "Um. Well. He's uh... I don't want to say boyfriend, that seems like such a shitty word for him."

"Suitor? Lover? Sugar daddy?"

"You had to go there. No, suitor implies he wants to marry me and lover seems so casual and please no to the sugar daddy... He's not old enough for that."

"Anybody can be a sugar something. But anyway. When he comes back in here and sees you it's gonna be wild. He's gonna love it. Tasteful but sultry, not too edgy."

When all was said and done, Nora was quite amazed. Whatever the man had done had given a new shiny life to her hair and it felt silky and soft again as it had when she had actually been taking care of it. The wine color started just around her ears and deepened at the tips of her hair but as he promised, it was subtle enough that it really only showed when she moved her head and the light glittered off it.

And, as he also had said, Hannibal was quite impressed when he returned, arms lined with shopping bags from around the city.

"Look at you two," the stylist said quietly to her, nodding at Hannibal waiting in the lobby. "Like a European power couple."

She hadn't seen him come in, but for a moment time stood still and they were the only two people in the entire salon. His eyes settled on hers, the same color as the tips of her hair in the dim light, and suddenly she felt a twist in her stomach that was similar to taking a missed step on a flight of stairs or peering off the top of a skyscraper. Not fear, but a rush of anxious unknowing. Trying to read the emotions in his deep-set eyes, wondering if the smirk that crossed his lips was lustful or humorous or simple happiness to see her.

The closer she drew to him, the more she was able to gather and the harder she blushed. There was a starved want in his gaze, a sort of greedy, carnal desire that made her heart leap into her throat and her face flush brightly as he studied what had changed about her. So predatory, she thought, reminding herself she'd used that word before with him. It should have set off little alarms in the back of her head but instead she only felt compelled. Deeply, desperately compelled.

She had no idea how or when they'd made it back to the penthouse. The tension between them had her so occupied that she hadn't even realized it was dinner time and he was already milling about in the kitchen, politely reprimanding the room service about some perceived wrongdoing she wasn't aware of. Something to do with the food, she figured. Listening to him scold them was like listening to someone like Julia Child flay someone alive; how saccharine he could sound when his words were so deeply but subtly scathing.

When he'd finished and dinner had been brought up (properly she hoped, for the sake of the hotel staff), he set them an intimate table and lined her feet with some of the bags he'd brought back from his afternoon out.

"I know you're not fond of gifts," he started, reaching over to straighten her silverware absentmindedly. "But you mentioned you're not fond of many of your clothes and you'd like them replaced. I quite like how you dress but I do know that a lot of your things are thread-barren and you don't have much for spring. So I chose some things that I think you'll like...and that I'd like to see you in."

She raised her eyebrows at him then. "Hannibal...you really did not have to do this," she told him, but his expectant expression didn't change. He wanted her to open his gifts. "And what are you getting at?"

"What am I getting at? I like to see you confident and happy in your appearance."

"No, the second part. About what you'd like to see me in."

He gave her a surprisingly bright smile that she'd only seen a few times before. "You will just have to see," he purred.

She tore into her presents as soon as she sensed he was done with dinner, unable to contain her curiosity after what he'd said.

There were a couple of exceptionally soft sweaters, oversized like she preferred. One forest green, one black, and even though they were simple in appearance they felt more sophisticated somehow. He'd also brought her a simple black circle skirt and a few tops to go with it, something that seemed so out of his taste but was so perfect for her. Some things she clearly knew he chose for his own curiosity but she fell in love with them anyway, like the lacy white high-collared blouse and black cardigan that felt exactly like it belonged on a librarian or historian. All of it fit with or enhanced things she already had and was quite compatible with her tendency to layer literally everything.

He presented her with a few rings and necklaces, silvery bright things set with labradorite and earthy tones and subtle crescent moon shapes that made her heart sing. "Greens, blues, and deep reds look lovely on you," he told her, holding her emerald sweater close to her face for comparison. "Natural jewel tones. I'm fond of black on you but you have to admit, Nora, these suit you quite well."

"I do love these colors... I thought you said you only got me a few things."

"I did. I would have gotten you more but I know you wouldn't take it. I'm not doing this to try and woo you or to...show off, I've just been wanting to treat you for quite some time. For what you did for me. You may never let me gift you anything again but just take this as it is, as a thank you."

"I guess I just don't want you to feel like you have to do these kinds of things for me. I don't want your money," she said, lingering on the last box. "You know that right?"

"I do know. If I had thought that of you, you would not be here, and you likely would have never heard from me again after I met you the first time. Now go on, open the last one."

* * *

Nora couldn't stop thinking about how he'd looked at her at the salon. Lustful was not even nearly the right word for it. He'd given her such a hungry, almost ravenous look when she revealed her new hair color and bangs, and had there not been a roomful of people she was sure he'd have taken her right there on the vanity in the middle of the store.

She watched him washing his face in the bathroom, her fingers twisting into the bedsheets unconsciously. They'd been only slightly intimate over the few months that they had been together but he'd never pressed her for anything sexually, and sure, he teased her endlessly but she knew he was waiting on her to come to him when she was ready. They'd taken baths together and shared brief touches here and there during their little necking sessions so the hidden appeal of what was beneath their clothes wasn't what had her so transfixed; she simply wanted him. She wanted all the things he alluded to when he pinned her against the ladder to his library, when his hands swept greedily over her and his teeth grazed her skin. She wanted him to ravish her like he implied he could in the subtle way he pressed his hips into hers when he kissed her in the kitchen.

She ached for him almost painfully. Her whole body craved his attention and she wondered if he could feel her looking at him from the bed as she let her eyes sweep over him, taking in the strong lines of his bare back and the width of his shoulders. His lightly tanned skin, the soft dip in his hips just before they disappeared beneath his favorite striped pajamas.

Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore. She slipped off the bed and snagged one of his dress shirts, wriggling into it before perching herself on the marble counter next to him as he preened. He gave her a strange look, knowing but also questioning, as if he was gaging the air between them for the appropriate response. She was also certain he was admiring the flush that she felt across her face and neck; he loved to make her blush, seeing the warmth blossom beneath her skin was nigh erotic to him in ways she didn't understand.

She thought he was unaware of her intentions. She shifted nervously as he dried his face, searching for any kind of reaction in his eyes but when they met hers again she felt like he'd set her aflame like a matchstick. Instantaneous, blazing. That same dark hunger that she'd seen earlier.

He parted her knees so that he could step between her legs, his fingers slipping beneath her thighs to yank her to the very edge of the counter. She fought back a gasp, instinctively hooking her legs at his waist, her heart hammering in her chest as he dipped his head to brush his lips over the corner of her mouth. She sought his kiss but he threaded his fingers into the back of her hair, tilting her head back, exposing her neck to him.

For a moment they were still, as if he had to think it all through. Not in an unsure way but in a way that she knew he was flipping through his mental rolodex of things he knew she liked, things he'd cataloged as they grew closer. Her breath hitched and she waited, her hands settling against his chest, but then he was nipping at her fluttering pulse and she pressed her body to his desperately.

She whimpered at the sharpness of his teeth and he apologized with blistering kisses that he trailed up her neck, tilting her head back farther so that he could follow her jawline before delving into her mouth feverishly. They were sloppy, desperate kisses that left her lips puffy and the taste of his wine in her mouth when he parted from her only briefly to whisper coarsely in her ear.

"I want to devour you," he breathed, releasing her hair to push the shirt away from her shoulders. "Wholly. Completely."

She couldn't speak to respond. She kissed the hollow of his throat and his sharp collarbones, her nails skimming against his ribs earning a deep rumble from him that sent shockwaves through her body.

Suddenly she was moving and she realized he was hauling her to the bed, excitement rippling down her spine as he dropped her into the pillowy blankets. Her shirt disappeared and he bent to kiss her stomach and ribs, his tongue sweeping over her hipbones, his teeth grazing the gentle slope of the underside of her breasts. She keened softly as his fingers pressed against her through her underwear, teasing, working soft gasps from her as he showered her ribs in open-mouthed kisses.

She let herself muss his hair as he kissed burning trails into the insides of her thighs. He was intent on learning every inch of her, tasting every inch of her, but she was beyond wanting to be teased. She tugged his face up to hers impatiently, arching up to him, pulling his hips down to hers with her legs locked around his waist. His lips were on hers again, breathlessly this time, as he ground his hips into her suggestively just to hear her soft moan.

He made love to her slowly, languidly. His name left her lips like a prayer and he basked in it each time; she could see it so clearly on his face, a different kind of ecstasy, one that she couldn't quite place through the thick fog of lust between them. Each roll of his hips had her gasping for breath, her nails digging into the soft skin of his shoulders as he set her ablaze from the inside out. It was as if he wanted to literally be beneath her skin, as if he could never be physically close enough to her, no matter how he positioned her or how desperately she clung to him.

He got exactly what he said he wanted, though. He consumed her.

When she broke beneath him, her voice echoing in soft peals through the penthouse, she felt as though somehow he'd taken a bit of her to keep as his own. A memory, maybe. Or a keepsake of their intimacy. Maybe even pieces of her heart, she thought, now that she'd finally been brave enough to let him in. It wasn't a draining feeling nor was it negative in any way, but she quite literally felt he had tightened his strange dominion over her and she pondered it later as they curled up for the night. He wasn't overtly possessive, wasn't visibly controlling, but she began to think that there was definitely a clear dynamic between them that she'd hadn't fully taken stock of until now.

A regency, maybe. He didn't rule her thoughts or her heart or desires, not in that way at least, but she found herself painfully aware of how he'd sort of absorbed her into his life and marked her ever so subtly as his territory. Everyone that knew them in any way saw it and had remarked on it in some fashion but she'd never quite looked at it from any view other than her own which was admittedly skewed.

He had artfully veiled her away from the world and slipped her beneath a luxurious, intoxicating haze where the only things she could see were the things closest to her. The only thing close enough, she mused, was him. She hadn't so much as thought about anyone or anything else since that night, only when it pierced through the veil to reach out to her personally. Alana was the saving grace and Nora remembered the last time they'd spoke over the phone for any length of time. It had nearly been a month. Granted they ate lunch together on occasion, when Hannibal wasn't bringing it to her, but the lunch conversations were...about him.

She took a deep breath, toying with the last box he'd given her, the smallest that sat on her nightstand. "He thinks you hung the moon," she recalled Alana saying. "...you've been good for him."

The necklace lay nestled deep in black tissue paper. She unfurled the chain slowly, holding the pendant up to the light that filtered in from the city below. Soft, faceted blue-white moonstone came to life as the light shone through, shadowed only by the antiqued silver stag antlers that cradled the perfectly round stone. They looked black in the dim light.

Maybe, she thought, she'd hung the moon, but in this case he was the moon itself and she had only placed him higher on some unseen pedestal. Stroking an ego? No. It was deeper than that. He wasn't so shallow as to use her as some sort of trophy or weird, witchy little worshiper. Was she validating something about him?

He was the one thing that pierced through the fog for her, like the full winter moon peering through the thin gossamer clouds that so often carried snow with them.

Or she was looking too far into it. Frustrated, she put the necklace back and rolled over in his arms, nestling her head into the pillow next to his. He felt her move and searched sleepily for her hands before clasping them against his chest and slipping back into a light slumber.

How could she question him? She'd known him for a few months now and maybe she was just caught up in a honeymoon sort of phase. She had struggled with this many times, with many others, and the moment they'd gone on to the next phase of learning and understanding she'd always sabotaged it to keep from compromising her own feelings and principals. It could have been that they were moving into that phase prematurely, considering that they had both progressed far too quickly with each other, and she was just looking for reasons to be suspect of him. There was, quite literally, no evidence other than that strange feeling of fight or flight that he triggered in her so easily. And maybe that was also a byproduct of long past relationships, of having been so easily used and framed and discarded like the scandal she'd mentioned to him.

So many maybes.

Sleep tugged at the deep corners of her mind and she scooted closer to him, seeking his warmth when a chill swept over her exposed back. No, not a chill. A frigidity that she recognized with a sharp pang of fear.

This time, she didn't dare look. She settled her eyes on Hannibal's face, on his Cupid's bow lips, the deep parentheses around his mouth, the soft pink tinge of his heavy eyelids. But the darkness even loomed over him and settled in the dramatic, deep features of his face, leaving only the skullish outline she'd seen when she met him.

She swallowed her gasp when she felt leathery fingers glide over the curve of her waist, slowly, leaving icy trails in their wake. In the way that Hannibal was searing and hot, they were bitingly cold and she shivered violently as they climbed higher over her ribs, pausing to feel each indentation between them before curling around her breast and up over her chest. The hand, exaggerated so wrongly in length, settled at her neck tightly and she felt panic surge through her as the creature spooned its body around her tightly.

"Hannibal," she breathed, squeezing his hands. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. If he could just look up and see and tell her it wasn't there... "Hannibal!"

She shook his hands then, bumping against his chest, but as the Wendigo's fingers coiled over her face she realized that Hannibal was just as cold. An ashen finger swept over her lips and dipped into her mouth and suddenly she couldn't move, couldn't breath - she was frozen beneath it as its fingers followed the outline of her teeth, gagging her briefly before very purposefully pressing its fingertips against the point of each of her canines. Testing them. It recoiled only slightly when it pressed too hard and she could see the droplets of black tar oozing from its skin, easily having been punctured like an aged fruit peel left out on a hot summer day. Black, soft, decaying.

Nora could barely make out Hannibal's face through her tears but she couldn't call out to him; she could feel how soaked the pillowcase was beneath her face and the muddled trails of tears and snot oozing across her cheeks but no matter how hard she tried she could not speak and the creature's fingers crept back over her lips, over her tongue, smearing the stagnant metallic taste of blood through her mouth until suddenly there was a bright, warm light burning her eyes and she felt herself being shaken against the bed roughly.

Her eyes flew open and her breath came back to her all at once, the light from her nightstand lamp flooding her eyes painfully. Hannibal was straddled across her middle, her hands pinned above her on the pillow.

"Eleanora!" he half-shouted, his eyes wide and frantic in a way she'd never seen them. "Do you hear me?!"

She sputtered briefly before erupting into panicked sobs, struggling against his hands until he relented and slid off her, pulling her up into his arms tightly.

"What is it?" he asked her, cradling her head against his collarbones. "Nora, what did you see?"

"It was him! It was the creature, that thing I keep seeing, it was touching me and choking me and I-...I couldn't move-"

"Nora. Look at me." He pulled her away from him, firmly holding her face in both hands to make her look straight at his face. "Look at me, focus on my eyes. Don't look around, don't look away, look at me and breathe."

She took a few shuddering breaths, coughing and choking on phlegm and tears, but he didn't loosen his hold on her until she was breathing without him prompting her to or counting to make her slow down.

"Is this the first time you've had these dreams since the last time we spoke?" he asked once she had calmed down. "Or have you been having them and not telling me?"

"I had one before the night at the pool," she sniffed. "But it wasn't like this..."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well we got hurt and then I didn't see you for a few days and I just...put it out of my mind..."

He smoothed her hair back gently, cupping her cheek in a warm palm. "You called it something before I woke you. What did you call it?"

"I was asleep?"

"Enough to have a violent nightmare. What was it called? If you can remember, we can discuss it."

"Wendigo."

His face darkened even in the light from the lamp and he squeezed her cheek, his eyes narrowing down at her. "Now, why would you be scared of such a thing?" he asked, completely unreadable in both his expression and tone of voice.

"I... I don't know. I looked it up the last time I had one of these dreams," she murmured. "What do you mean violent nightmare? What did I do?"

He nudged her a little farther away from him, letting her eyes follow his to the bloodied scratches on his chest and even on his upper arm. Fine little trails beaded with drying blood, not gashes or true cuts but something much like a shallow cat scratch. She looked down at her hands and realized she'd even scratched hair off his chest; maroon tinged the milky underside of her almond-shaped nails.

"You had no idea, don't feel guilty," he said quickly before she could begin crying again. "I'm fine. I've survived much worse, I can promise you that. But we need to talk about this when we get back, alright? You are going to hurt yourself or me if we don't sort this out."

She nodded.

"Now. I'm going to clean myself up. Lie here, and I'll bring you some tea to help you calm down."

"Let me help you-"

"Rest. Lie still, breathe. I promise I will be right back."

He dabbed at his wounds only briefly, mostly to get the blood off, before rooting around in the kitchen. She sat numbly, unable to get the image of all the little scratches on him out of her mind. She had done that to him. She had hurt him, minute though it seemed, she had physically hurt the one person who she had just been telling herself had become central in her life.

So typical, she thought, for her to hurt someone just before really being able to settle into a relationship. Last time it was words. This time, it was physical, and even under different connotations she felt it wouldn't be long until she slipped back into her old habits. Or maybe he'd tire of her night terrors and neuroticism beforehand and leave her to wallow in her self-imposed sadness.

"You're thinking about it too hard," he chided her, noticing her grim expression when he came back with a tray of tea. "The scratches are superficial, Nora. You haven't wounded anything beyond my hide."

"It's the premise of it," she retorted.

"I know."

"Are you going to leave me?"

"That's quite an irrational leap. No, I will not leave you over something like this. You are more special to me than you realize, and nightmares are not an indication of what you think is 'craziness', they are simply nightmares. We will work on it, understand it, treat it. It does not make you broken, it does not make you less appealing to me in any way. There are many more facets to you than your perceived problems, and I adore every single one. Even the ones you take issue with."

For a moment, her heart swelled in her chest. If she hadn't known any better the would have taken that as some sort of declaration of love. And god, she wanted to say it, he had her right there on the verge and the more he spoke the more the words wanted to fall right out of her mouth. _I love you._ It itched in her mouth, in two ways. One begging to be let out, pleading for her to just tell him and be done with it, the other demanding to be held back as he wasn't the kind of person who would return the sentiment that way. Nor was it the right time. She was sleepy, disoriented, confused. The next day she might have felt differently and regretted saying it.

She knew he could see her struggling internally. It piqued his interest and his eyes glittered at her like they always did; mischievous, cunning, knowing. He knew exactly what he did to her and what kind of turmoil was raging inside her, all because of him.

"We'll worry about it when we're back in Baltimore," he said softly, sitting down beside her. "Here. It's chamomile. And a little valerian, not a lot as it's not a pleasant smell or flavor but...it helps."

Oh, did it help. Nora had never slept harder in her entire life, wrapped tightly in Hannibal's arms.


	13. Chapter 13

In the week leading up to his dinner party, Hannibal's company was sparse. He called her when he could but after having spent so much time with him, Nora wasn't quite sure how to operate without him. She busied herself at work and Alana visited for lunch a couple of days out of the week just to keep up with her, which helped, but Nora struggled to focus.

Thursday came and he nearly cleaned out her shop of flowers and decorations. She wasn't there when he came by but Dan called her and told her how many thousands of dollars he'd spent and how low they were on stock as if it was some terrible plight, but Nora wasn't surprised. He'd done the same to a store in New York when he found a particular set of silverware he liked. Some of his haul sat temporarily in her kitchen in boxes, waiting for Sunday, but she hadn't looked at them. She didn't dare root through his things, even if it was just boxes of forks and knives and soup spoons.

She jumped at the chance to help him when he called her late Thursday night. He wanted her to help decorate, to make centerpieces for tables and mantles, which was right up her alley.

"I need my sous chef, too," he added. "I've grown used to cooking with you and having you taste everything."

"Of course. Are you coming to get me tomorrow afternoon? Do you have my dress?"

"Everything is taken care of. I'll be waiting on you when you get off work."

* * *

Being back in his home immediately put Nora back on her mental tracks and she made note of that before he whisked her off to his giant den, presenting her with droves of flowers and feathers and greenery for his centerpieces he had in mind. The fact that he was trusting her solely to do this said something in itself, but she didn't question it or push it.

It took her until the next afternoon to complete the project and he was greatly pleased with her work. Her taste was exquisite, he told her, showering her with grateful kisses.

"Come eat dinner," he said softly, urging her toward the kitchen. "I'm afraid it's light for this evening since I've been working on the dishes for the party."

"That's fine. Do you need help?"

"With a few things. I don't want to tire you, though. Would you like to see?"

His kitchen island was lined end to end with things she had no hope to recognize. He named them to her, showing off the more artsy ones (but seriously, was there anything he cooked that wasn't a work of art?), revealing another platter he was keeping in the fridge of fruits and some sort of sorbet specially made for her. Literally everything else was a meat item, she realized.

"Did you make all of this by yourself? Just since yesterday?" she asked, eyeballing a cut of meat he'd so delicately shaped into a rose. Something about it clashed in her mind.

"I did. A lot of it is assembling things I already had. Like this, bresaola." Of course he was talking about the rose thing. "I had been curing it for quite some time. Now is the perfect time to use it. Would you like to try it?"

It was the first time he'd asked. Whether or not he was joking, she wasn't sure. She had told him, however, that she was open to trying meat and she instantly began to regret having said that.

He chuckled when she hesitated. "If I were to corrupt your palate, it wouldn't be with this," he said, absently straightening the platter on the counter. "Tartare, maybe. Something plain and simple."

"Are you going to make that, too?"

"Oh no, not for Sunday. It would be quite a waste and leaving it to sit in the open air is questionable at best."

She eyed him for a moment, ever so slightly hung up on his wording. "Corrupt" was so harsh a term. And though she felt strongly about her views, she also remembered he'd promised that he sourced his dishes from ethical - if you could really call it that - butchers. Not a factory, not a mass farm. Something was still dying for his hobby but she wasn't contributing to it directly.

Her loophole.

Tasting something for the sake of curiosity wasn't buying into the industry she loathed so much. She could feel him watching her as she mulled over it. It wasn't the eating part that got her, she told herself, it was the process of acquiring it all. If nothing had to die, if it was so easy to just find animals naturally dead she would never have a problem with it, and she knew nature did not work that way in the least.

"You want me to make it, don't you?" he said quietly, more of a statement than a question. "But you're still on the fence. What are you thinking about?"

"It's just something I haven't considered since...honestly, since I was in elementary school. I never had a second thought about it. When I got older I realized that humans as a whole have evolved past the situational need to hunt, other than for population regulation, and I thought it was unnecessary as a whole save for a few countries here and there but-"

"You consider it a luxury that capitalizes on the pain of innocents."

"Well, when you put it that way..." she mumbled. "Is that too much? Am I looking into it too far?"

"No. You are correct, in a way. There are reasons for both arguments and yours are well thought out. More-so than the average person's. But, if you take yourself out of the perceived equation - where you see yourself spending money to have others harmed for your enjoyment - and you find yourself at the end product without having contributed, are you really contradicting yourself? You aren't paying me, you haven't personally taken advantage of someone or something. You are simply partaking in an experience. Not a process. All of the ugliness is out of the way. I've taken that on for you."

"You pretty much reiterated what I was thinking but a little more eloquently," she admitted, still staring blankly down at his bresaola flowers. "Are you that far buried into my mind now? So far that you just... _know_?"

"If your mind was a castle or a palace, I feel I would be standing just inside the great hall, having just briefly glimpsed your bed chambers," he said, fighting a smirk when she blushed at the implication. "The great hall says a lot about the owner. But I still have so much to explore."

She turned to him then, leaning into his chest, but again something about his way with words had her slightly on edge. There was a definite sincerity to the things he said but she felt...baited. Like he was trying to lead her to some sort of hidden, deeper conclusion that maybe he wanted to her form on her own but at the same time maybe it was laid out for her in small clues and hints. Maybe she just had to put it all together.

But what in the world could he be getting at? Sometimes she felt like he was a vampire, waiting at a doorway to be invited inside. Sometimes she felt that he had already made it inside and had settled into her mind like an incubus, feeding on her thoughts and dreams, dazzling her with such an oddly esoteric lust that on the surface felt so real and so dangerously like love. Esoteric, she thought, was the right term. Only truly known to him. Veiled to her behind a gauzy pretense of romance and the aesthetics of a relationship.

She could bait back.

"It's funny," she started, struggling to quiet her pulse as his fingers trailed over the side of her neck. "I feel like I've been in the solar of your castle for quite some time, but I'm not quite sure how I got there."

The word was beyond dated and even she had never spoken it aloud in conversation, but he knew what it meant. She could see her sentence flicker across his face briefly, his eyes shimmering down at her as he picked apart their meaning, gaging her to determine the appropriate reaction.

He dipped his head cautiously to kiss her, eyes searching hers desperately in a way that she had never seen. Usually, she would return the gesture, but her lack of a reaction caused him to hesitate just long enough that she knew she'd gotten to him somehow. Again, he sought her lips, his nose brushing against hers, and she had to force herself not to play into it more or else he would feel she was toying with him.

Hannibal faltered and she had seen it. It was small, nearly unobservable, and she felt a very real danger in what she'd done but seeing him make such a mental misstep was like watching a cat fail to land on its feet after a short drop. For the first time he had failed to surmise the appropriate course of action, or even form his own reply, and the rough kiss she was met with was evidence of that.

His fingers tangled tightly in the back of her hair, almost too tightly, as he tilted her face up to his to deepen the kiss. What had she done to him? He wasn't angry, he wasn't frustrated... Was this his way of trying to cover his gaffe? By distracting her? Or was he simply letting her out into the palace now, letting her glimpse whatever lurid creature really lived outside the solar.

Just when she began to let it all slip from her mind, he parted from her, urging her into the dining room. She sat in silence, almost sullen that he'd brushed her away so easily, but she could hear him clanging around in the kitchen rather ungracefully as compared to normal. Had she really hit a nerve so hard? What nerve was it? What she'd considered in New York hadn't left her and she muddled that into the equation, wondering if maybe he really was easing her into feeling dependent on him, but there seemed to be no benefit or reason to that other than maybe he just craved her companionship in a way she hadn't figured out yet. She couldn't imagine him being romantically involved with anyone and told herself that it was likely he kept her so close to keep her from being influenced to leave him for some reason or other. If the only thing she could see was him through the fog, there was no chance that she'd find something or someone else to replace him.

* * *

Sunday came and Hannibal let her sleep in until nearly noon. When she finally stirred and wandered downstairs, she found him sitting at his harpsichord, scribbling a note at a time onto his sheet music.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, tucking her hair behind her ear as she sat down beside him.

"I slept so hard I didn't even dream," she murmured. "No breakfast today?"

"I didn't want to disturb you. You were sleeping so peacefully you didn't notice my alarm."

"Were you upset at me last night?"

"Not in the least," he said quickly. "What makes you think so?"

"I...was being abrasive, I guess. Digging at you when I shouldn't have been."

He looked over at her curiously. "You surprised me," he told her. "There's a sort of truth in what you said, but I feel you may be attaching something more sinister to it."

"What do you mean?"

"You said you felt as if I was keeping you in the solar. The private room of a traditional manor or castle, like a family room, far removed from the noise of the world. I do, in a sense, feel protective of you, but I haven't intended to isolate you or make you feel trapped. Is that what you meant?"

"Trapped is too strong a word. I guess I've just been living in my own fantasy world here," she sighed. "When I'm here, or with you, all I can think about is you. Even when I'm home or at work I just wonder about you and what you're doing. I can't sleep alone anymore...you literally feed me almost every day so I don't have to cook, I haven't touched my fridge in weeks except to get a bottle of water... I just feel like I've gotten dependent on you? Maybe that's the wrong word. I'm not sure how to explain it. I feel like I know you but I don't at the same time and it gets to me and then I want to make you out to seem malignant in some way just because I don't understand and that's not fair."

"I take it your past relationships have never gone well?"

"Disastrous."

"You feel as if I am manipulating you to keep you close to me, but you also fear you are sabotaging us by questioning me."

She nearly rolled her eyes. Of course he knew exactly what was going on. "Yes... I'm a master at sabotaging the good things."

"Does it bother you that I seem more familiar with you than you do with me?"

"Yes. I know so much about you but it seems superficial. I see something deeper and I don't know what it is but I want to know. I want to know what makes you tick. I want to know how you began. How you got to where you are now." She reached up to trace her fingers over his sharp cheekbones and he kissed her palm, trapping her hand to his face gently.

"I have many walls and locked doors, just like you," he said lowly, squeezing her hand. "I guess I have a clinical tendency to keep you contained in the nicest rooms. Old habits. If I let you out, if I let you wander, where would you go?"

"Everywhere. I have so many questions. So many things I want to see. I want to love you. I really, really want to love you the best I can but you have to let me."

He gave her a warm smile, pressing a butterfly kiss to her lips wistfully. For a moment there was a softness to him that she had never felt; he seemed vulnerable, just for a split second, and her heart completely melted as he bumped his forehead against hers, his eyes closed as if he was listening to a beautiful piece of music.

"We'll work on it," he told her. "I may be familiar with how you think but I want to know the source. I want to learn you. What has shaped your thoughts and your morals and values."

"Then make a day of it with me and we'll talk."

"I will. The waitstaff will be here soon, though. Let's get dressed."

* * *

If Hannibal hadn't been there to deflect questions, Nora would have never survived the night.

People swarmed them as soon as he lead her into the room. She naturally wanted to recoil, maybe go to the kitchen, but Hannibal kept her at his side with a warm hand at the exposed curve of her back. He artfully fielded all the questions that didn't directly require her input and shielded her from the more prying guests, leading her through the crowd to a table of cocktails and champagne.

She was surprised at just how brash people could be but she had to remind herself that they were all probably under the influence at this point. The drinks were too good not to indulge in. She found herself quite guilty of over-indulging, sipping flute after flute of champagne until Hannibal noted the soft pink that began to tinge her cheeks.

Alana was a great reprieve from the high-society guests of the night. She immediately spotted Nora across the crowd and skittered to her side, slightly agape at Nora's dress.

"You're not overdressed, but damn," she told Nora, spinning her around to look at the jeweled back. "Did you pick this out?"

"I did, sort of. Hannibal bought it for me. It's not really me, is it?"

"I think it is. It's just wild seeing you not in a sweater. How's it going so far?"

Nora glanced wistfully over the guests, spotting Hannibal amidst a small group that seemed completely engrossed in whatever he was saying. "I guess I like it. It's different," she murmured, clinking her nails against the champagne flute thoughtfully. "He had me do the flower arrangements and we both worked on all the food. I just don't know how to handle this kind of crowd, you know?"

"I _am_ a doctor and these people intimidate me, Nora. Don't feel bad. And they're not all just doctors, some of them are ballet dancers and orchestra conductors... See that girl over there? The one in the slinky gold dress?"

"I think. The one that's way too close to Hannibal?"

"Yeah. She's a world-class violinist. I think she's been after him for years at this point so don't worry about that but you know...it's definitely a little hard to compete with."

Nora scoffed, thrusting a cocktail at Alana. "Now you've got me worried," she laughed.

"Oh god no, I promise, if you listened to her talk you'd want to throttle her. She gets invited along with the rest of the local orchestra and that is the _only_ reason she's here. That guy next to her is a flutist. And the grey-haired guy that looks like Einstein is the conductor. I'm not entirely sure why he hangs out with people like this because they seem a little shallow for him but what do I know?"

"I'm just glad you're here. I was enjoying it when he was over here but when he walks off I feel like a fish out of water. But honestly the way he was dragging me around made me feel like a pretend housewife so I can't win. Does it seem that way to you?" she asked, looking over at Alana nervously. "I know you haven't really seen us together at the same time but be honest."

"I dunno. I guess I would just have to watch him. He's probably just trying too hard to show you off without getting you hung up in all the nosy questions," Alana shrugged. "Honestly I've never seen him really dating someone at all so I have no clue how to judge that. Is something bothering you about him?"

"I can't place my finger on it. We get in these really weird...riddle talks with each other and I feel like he wants to tell me something but I'm not sure what? Or that he's suggesting something or hiding something... He doesn't bother me, per se, it's just like we can't figure each other out or something? And we've been up each other's asses for like months now but maybe we're both just wary of letting each other in. Which is dumb, I shouldn't be telling you this here-"

"You're pretty buzzed. I think your filter is off. But that seems pretty par for the course with Hannibal."

"I am coping, Alana," Nora said sarcastically. "Coping with a lot of expensive champagne. Hey, isn't that Jack Crawford?"

As if on cue, Hannibal's head peeked up over the crowd at the same time. Jack waved to Alana quickly, almost nervously before drifting toward the appetizer table.

"I didn't think he was coming," Alana said quietly.

"Who's that guy behind him?"

"That's Doctor Chilton. He's the head at the state hospital where they're holding Will Graham. I'm not fond of him but I guess he's pretty smart."

"Why does he look like he's about to take the hell off? Who's he scared of?"

Alana nearly snorted trying to stifle a laugh. "That's just his face," she giggled. "I swear he always looks like that."

Hannibal was already greeting them, happily offering for Jack to mingle but Jack refused. Nora hated how Chilton stood away from the two of them, leaning on his cane with his eyes cut dramatically to the side as if he didn't really want to look but had to out of morbid curiosity. Like watching a car crash. He shifted back and forth uncomfortably the entire time that Hannibal was speaking to them.

"If you say so. He looks like he's scared to death of Hannibal," Nora grumbled.

"I think Hannibal intimidates him more than he lets on."

"Intimidate seems a little too soft of a word."

Jack seemed to be making some sort of a fuss. Hannibal had one of the staff bring out a dish and Jack filled it with appetizers, waving the staff and Hannibal away, and Nora could see how confused Hannibal was even from across the room with her least favorite contacts in.

"His wife is sick," Alana told her. "He's probably just stopping by. He usually goes straight home to her at night."

They spoke only briefly to Hannibal again before making a break for the door. Chilton looked over his shoulder at Hannibal once and Nora could have sworn she saw him blanch; what in the world was he so spooked by? When Hannibal returned to her side he confirmed that Jack was wanting to get back to his wife, but even he was confused as to why he only wanted a couple of appetizers.

"He must be under a lot of pressure," Hannibal mused, his hand settling in the curve of Nora's waist protectively. "Would you like to dance with me, Nora? I hate to take you away from Alana but I'd like to dance with my _innamorata_ at least once before the night is up."

Nora blushed at his choice of words, glancing back at Alana questioningly. Alana just smirked at her and urged her on.

She found herself pulled tight against him, twirling and spinning around the dance floor with people she remembered being introduced to but couldn't place who they were. She caught little glimpses of Alana's blue cocktail dress as they danced, reassuring her that she was still there, but she could feel everyone's gaze on her and Hannibal like a spotlight.

He, however, did not care in the slightest. They danced until the room was a blur and he was so glued to her that there was no air between them save the slight gap between their faces; she half expected him to dip her down in front of everyone and kiss her right then and there. The brief pauses between songs only left her breathless and even more dizzy than before, heat flashing across her face when he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze.

For a moment, there was a flash in his eyes that she recognized when her stomach flipped and her chest tightened. "You are radiant," he whispered to her, his other hand tightening gently at her waist. "It's no wonder they stare. One more dance?"

She could only nod to him.

The alcohol had her head spinning violently now, almost too much for her to handle, but she simply kept her grip on him and followed his lead. It was odd, she thought. He'd asked her to teach him how to dance and yet here he was, leading her around as if he was her instructor. He was smooth, practiced, as if he had done this every day of his life. When he dipped her dramatically at the very end she felt as if her head was going to roll across the room and into the kitchen, but the clapping and scattered laughter and praise brought her back around just in time to see the warm smile plastered across his face.

God, I'm in deep, she thought. Her heart flittered happily and she savored the image, curling into his side happily when he righted her again.

More questions came and Hannibal answered them as politely as possible. He alluded only slightly to the nature of their relationship, mentioning her as his dearest once or twice, and Nora had to bite her lip to keep from blushing like a schoolgirl. Everyone wanted to know how she'd hooked the infamous Doctor Lecter. Where did she come from? What was her job? Where did she go to school? And by school she knew they meant universities and grad schools but her answers seemed satisfying to them on some level.

"Botany!" they'd all say incredulously, as if it was some magical and long-forgotten art. "Then how'd you end up as a florist?"

And then Hannibal would deflect them again, mentioning that she'd done all the decorations for the party. Ultimately, this resulted in more than a few guests asking for her to decorate their own private parties and numbers were exchanged but Nora wasn't sure if she'd ever follow up on it.

When she began to blink drearily, her lids heavy, Hannibal ushered her off to Alana for safe keeping until the guests began to drift out and the house slowly emptied. She listened to Alana babble for a while about work, about how she wished she had more time to talk to Jack and something about how she'd been wanting Nora to try a new cafe with her, but it was all Nora could to do to keep her eyes open.

Somehow, she ended up in Hannibal's room, her shimmering black dress disappearing from her. A chill swept over her skin before she felt his warmth at her back, his hands sweeping over her greedily. They tangled in the soft navy blankets and she found herself being flipped atop him deftly so that he could admire her, again letting his hands wander over her pale curves that were only backlit by the low embers of a dying fire in his fireplace.

The soft gold light made his skin shimmer. She let herself explore him, sleepy though she was, her lips ghosting every inch of skin that she could find. She littered soft purplish-pink marks across his ribcage, relishing the soft sighs she earned from him and the feeling of his hands tangled tightly in her dark hair. Eventually, she came to learn what it was like to hear her name on a lover's lips and why he had found it so enrapturing. It was the highest form of praise, she thought. No other compliment was quite the same. The way he whispered it to her was just as, if not more so, erotic as their tired and sparkling-wine-tinged lovemaking.

There was no urgency or desperation this time. They had all the time in the world and they took advantage of this until Nora absolutely could not stay awake, at which point he tucked her into her spot at his side with her head on his chest and she slipped into a dreamless sleep listening to the soft thump of his heartbeat.

* * *

The doorbell was the last thing she expected to wake them.

Hannibal sighed, ruefully untangling their limbs before making some comment about a census taker she didn't catch. A brief glance at her phone told her it was some time around 5am, far before she even needed to be up for work. He threw on a sweater and his pajama pants before disappearing out into the hallway.

Curiosity got the better of her and she slipped into one of his bathrobes, quietly navigating her way to the door. She could hear Jack Crawford needling him about something even from his kitchen.

"I was here all night," Hannibal said lowly, his voice hinting at frustration.

"Do you have anyone that can verify that?"

Nora peeked her head around the doorway then, catching Hannibal's eye.

"I was here all night," she said timidly, and Hannibal motioned for her to come to his side. "I hate to interrupt. I was just coming down for some tea."

Jack sort of grimaced at her statement as if he knew he'd put his foot in his mouth. He looked to Hannibal, then back at her, unsure of what to say until Hannibal finally broke the silence.

"If I may ask, what prompted this?" Hannibal asked, looking at Jack expectantly.

"I...I can't tell you at the moment. Alana may call you later today," Jack said quickly, backing toward the door. "I'm sorry I woke you. I ah... I guess I should get going."

"You're welcome to stay for breakfast."

Jack shook his head almost vehemently. "No thanks," he blurted, and after a quick goodbye and another apology he was gone.

Nora glanced up at Hannibal. "What's he going on about?" she asked. "And to be honest I really wasn't down here for tea. I just wanted to see who would be at the door at 5am."

"I figured as much. He was asking me where I was last night, and he seemed rather perturbed when I didn't give him the answer he was looking for. I'm not sure what it could be about but no doubt Will Graham has been telling them all sorts of things to put them at odds with me," Hannibal grumbled. "I told him goodbye not too long ago, that I didn't want to speak to him again. Right after we came back from New York. He must be angry at me."

"Told Will Graham goodbye? Why?"

"He tried to kill me, Nora. And in the process he almost got you killed as well. He has been a dark cloud hanging over all our heads and I simply can't go on trying to salvage a friend out of whatever this is that he's become. The dead must stay dead."

She nodded, letting him lead her into the kitchen. He busied himself making her a fresh cup of tea, obviously upset that Jack had really been accusing him of something. What, they didn't know, but the fact that they even suspected Hannibal had him worked up and maybe even a little sad.

He sat rather grimly with her at the dining room table as they ate breakfast, lost deep in thought even as she talked to him about what she had to do at work today. Even when it was time for her to go and he dropped her off at work he seemed rather despondent. She tried her best to cheer him, kissing him warmly before she slipped out of the car, but that only left him even more unreadable.

She struggled all day to keep her thoughts on her work. What could they possibly have been accusing him of? Why Hannibal? Was that why they were so worried-looking at the dinner party?

Jack Crawford and Doctor Chilton had taken only two or three of Hannibal's rose-shaped appetizers he'd been so happy about, she remembered. Jack had been inspecting them until Hannibal greeted them. What could they want with that? It seemed such a strange and specific thing to want to take home when he could have just eaten it there. Surely Jack's wife wouldn't want it if she was as sick as Alana mentioned.

It jarred her when Dan turned on the news. She immediately tried to block it out, putting in headphones to try and drown it out but she couldn't escape all the speculation no matter how hard she tried. Will Graham this, Will Graham that. An incident at the state mental hospital that nobody had details on yet. When Dan went on his lunch break, Nora immediately turned the TV to a cooking show and hoped to all the gods she could think of that he wouldn't notice when he came back. All she knew was that she was exceptionally tired of hearing Will Graham's name, and that she was beginning to loathe the thought of him even though she hadn't met him ever.

Whoever he really was, she thought, he was really great at ruining the few happy moments of her life.


	14. Chapter 14

****I want to apologize in advance for 1) this trash chapter and 2) the lack of updating in the past while. Things have been wild to say the least and I have been struggling to write in general. I hope this sets me back on track, thanks everyone who followed/favorited while I was out!****

For the first time since she met him, Nora was not happy to see Hannibal.

She wasn't quite sure what she felt. He stood before her on her doorstep, eyes pleading, the early spring mist clinging to his hair and suit. The overcast day made his eyes seem as gray as gunmetal. He offered her a small basket and a bottle of wine.

"Why didn't you call me?"

He bit his lip, eyes dropping to the ground. The cold breeze speckled her face with rain and she fought back a shudder.

"If you'll allow me, I'd like to explain," he said softly, his gaze tentatively meeting hers. "Things have been...chaotic. I never meant to lose track of time as I have."

She grit her teeth before begrudgingly allowing him inside, fighting the urge to lean away from the chaste kiss he pressed to her temple. Though his warmth made her heart flutter, she couldn't quite get past the fact that he hadn't talked to her in any way at all in over two weeks. Not a peep from him, Alana, or anyone else. She had gone to work every day and come home every evening waiting by her phone, waiting for him to pull up at the sidewalk in front of the shop, loathing every time she heard that god damned Will Graham's name on the local news.

She was just as angry at Alana as she was him. She felt isolated, culled, as if they were both so sucked into this case that she no longer held any precedence in their lives. Jealous. Angry that they were still trying to hold onto whatever shred of decency this man supposedly held.

Nightmares only grew in intensity the longer she was alone.

He followed her to her kitchen, placing his wicker basket on the counter. "I hope you haven't eaten already," he started, unpacking all sorts of small glass dishes, but she didn't respond. He waited for a few moments for any sort of acknowledgment from her, glancing over at her curiously, and when she still didn't answer he sighed heavily. "I understand you're quite upset at me."

"Confused, mostly," she murmured. There was a bite to her tone that she hadn't intended. "You and Alana both dropped off the radar."

"I should have handled the situation better. You have a right to be upset. We didn't forget about you, if that's what you might be thinking."

"Then what was going on?"

"May I borrow a cutting board and a chef's knife?"

She nodded, a little irritated at his deflection as she rooted around in her cabinets for her board. He worked for a few moments silently so she took to her small dining room, clearing her books and trinkets off the table and giving everything a good once-over with the duster before he began to wander in and out while setting the table. He studied each mismatched plate he brought out from her cabinet, turning them around and around as if he'd never seen anything less than some 1832 historical fine china.

Finally, he settled with her at the table, having presented her with some abstract take on inari and a cup of hot tea. Light and rather simple for him, she thought. It was even more shocking that his dish was not on a theme with hers.

"Will Graham is being released," he said abruptly. She gaped at him across the corner of the table, her breath catching in her chest. "I've been questioned quite thoroughly, multiple times, and I've also been working with Miriam Lass. I'm sure you've seen that on the news."

"The girl they found in that warehouse...?"

"Yes. Jack Crawford has had her in quite a few therapy sessions with me. There are many, many other things going on right now that may pull me away from you but I never intended for you to feel neglected, Nora."

Her breath came back to her in a rush. She clutched her teacup hard, unsure of what to say. How could they release someone who had openly tried to murder Hannibal? Wasn't there evidence of some sort?

"A simple phone call would have sufficed, I know, but I didn't want to involve you in this in any way," he finished, turning his attention to his own plate. She watched him for a moment before realizing the white thing sitting on top of his dish was a half of a small egg shell, and he tipped the yolk onto his plate carefully. Whatever he was eating seemed like it could have been still alive. "I also didn't think that it had been two weeks. Time escaped me."

"Aren't you worried he's getting out? After what happened?" she needled.

"I am. But I am also relieved that he's not the Ripper. I hope that maybe someday I can work through what happened with him, but for now I'd rather just spend time away from it all before I resume my practice."

"When are you going to start that again?"

"I'm not sure. But soon." He glanced warily at her untouched plate. "Are you not hungry?"

"Oh! I am. I was just listening..." she mumbled. "Is this inari?"

"Inari, or yubuchobap if you would like to keep with the theme."

"What's the theme, then?"

"Korea," he quipped, his tone perking up. "Yours is popular in quite a few places. Mine is as well but it's all up to regional variances."

"And yours is...?"

"Yukhoe. A take on tartare."

She cocked her head at him, taking a tentative bite of her dish. "Did you do that on purpose? After what we talked about before your dinner party?"

"Maybe. I've had it on my mind since we mentioned it. This is a different flavor profile than European variants but I believe it's my favorite."

"So what ah...?" she nodded at his plate. "What kind of cut is it?"

"Heart," he said simply.

She wasn't sure whether to shudder or sigh. There was a very taboo eroticism in it, she mused, but pondering over it for too long made her lean back toward the strange sense of apprehension she felt when they had first met. It was a familiar feeling now that she had learned was just part of his rather foreboding visage, but the fact that she kept coming back to it also never slipped her mind.

Sometimes, she realized, she liked that little flip her stomach did when she felt that way. Like the slight rush she felt during the twist of a horror movie.

"I want to try it," she blurted, without thinking, and immediately she blanched when she realized what she said.

"Are you sure?"

She froze.

He chuckled, picking up the smallest bite off his plate. "Your curiosity is going to consume you if you don't consume it first," he told her, looking over at her expectantly.

"And you're not going to let it go, are you?" she countered. The crooked grin that crossed his face was her answer.

He let her hesitate for only a split second before the fork was at her lips and a rather frigid piece of yukhoe was on her tongue. She nearly recoiled, confused at the coldness and the richness of it, but there was a bright twist to it that cut the salt and sesame. Pear, she thought. The texture was nothing like she remembered. Smooth, buttery. Not slimy as she imagined.

Rich. Salt. Sweet. Acidic. And...she wasn't sure what the final note was. Coppery. Gamey. Something visceral that reminded her quite painfully of what she'd just eaten for the first time since she was a child.

"I know this is just food but that really... it's weird. It's delicious but the thought of it-" she tried, hoping to wash it down with her tea, but the taste persisted. "There's a lot of weird feelings and I don't really know how to describe it but uh..."

"You liked it until you questioned it. What made you rethink?"

"It's not bloody in the sense that there's blood in it but I taste it. Just enough to make me exceptionally uncomfortable. That's what the coppery flavor is, right? Blood?" she babbled, her cheeks burning as she realized how dramatic she was being. "I hate myself for liking it. I really do. I don't know why I'm bothered so much, I really don't but-"

"Nora," he crooned, pausing her. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying it. You're overthinking it, trying to make yourself out to be immoral somehow."

"I guess... It was nice. I just have to get over the premise of it. But this is just distracting me, back to what you were telling me about Will. What are you going to do if he tries to hurt you again? What if this just doesn't end?"

"I don't believe he will. I'll go about my life as I did before. And, if I feel I need to distance myself from here...well, I've always dreamed of living in Florence," he said wistfully.

"Italy?"

"Yes."

Something twinged deep in her chest. She shifted, uncomfortable, unsure of how to process the feeling but she couldn't imagine him just up and leaving. Not without her. She had to go with him. 2 weeks without him was miserable enough. Or was she just that clingy? They'd hardly been seeing each other for half a year.

"You think I'd just leave you here?" he asked suddenly, startling her.

"I just hope it doesn't come to that," she tried, but again, he saw straight through her.

"I've factored you into many things in my life. I would never abandon you."

"Hannibal..."

"Yes?"

His deep maroon eyes bored a hole in her skull, waiting expectantly for her statement. She struggled to find anything to say, knowing what she wanted to say, but for some reason it just couldn't escape her lips. It was as if her tongue was glued to the top of her mouth and her throat filled with resin.

"I-" was all she could manage before she bit her lip, frustrated, searching his gaze for some sort of affirmation that he knew what she was attempting to tell him.

He sat quietly for a moment, his head cocked to the side as he studied her, but a knowing smile crossed his face and he reached over to cup her hand gently. She squeezed her eyes shut, embarrassed, and at the same time trying to tell herself that he knew and that she wasn't making an ass out of herself.

"Stay with me tonight," he said quietly, tracing his thumb over her knuckles. "I've missed your company."

"I missed you, too."

* * *

There was a relief that flooded Nora's bones when she flopped back onto Hannibal's bed that she had never felt before. It was as if she had been on vacation for months and she was just now coming home. She missed the plush navy blankets, the marble tile bathroom, the cool crisp sheets. Even the vast expanse of the rest of his home felt normal now and it took all she had in her body not to roam just to take it all in again.

He showered her in kisses and draped her in a soft forest-green satin robe, something he told her he had picked up as a gift to make up for his lack of communication. Each kiss washed away any bitterness she still held and soon she found herself curled up against him in his den, sipping hot tea and watching a low fire as if nothing had ever happened. She couldn't physically get close enough to him.

"Would you like another cup?" he asked, noticing her struggling to get the last drop out.

"Sure. If you don't mind."

He collected her cup and padded away, leaving her tucked into the corner of the couch with a warm blanket.

She let herself relax into the leather cushions, watching the fire fade. It flickered and cast all sorts of shadows around the room, sometimes silhouetting things and projecting them onto the ceiling or floor. The mounted kudu that sat above the fireplace projected a rather unsettling horned something onto the ceiling that she didn't like to look at; it was far too easy to get spooked in his house sometimes, no matter how comfortable she felt.

The steady tick of the clock on his desk wavered and she sat up, confused. There was an extra beat in between the ticks. Syncopated. tick-TICK... tick-TICK... No, not ticks. The clock wasn't even making a noise. Hoofbeats on the tile floor.

She whirled, her pulse nearly stopping when she saw the black stag disappear into the hallway. It's headed toward the kitchen, she thought. Hannibal.

Her feet slapped against the cold tile as she skidded around the corner and into the dark hallway. The floor was icy where it had stepped and a frigid wind caught her robe, rushing over her bare skin as she ran for the kitchen. She could see the shadow of it in the door of the kitchen, peering in at Hannibal, pawing anxiously at the ground as if it was trying to communicate somehow.

But she wasn't sure how to approach it. She stopped feet away, scared, agonizing over what to do about it but when her pulse slowed she could hear Hannibal talking faintly to someone.

The stag looked back at her once before slipping into the kitchen. She stepped as quietly as she could, sneaking up to the door for a glance. The stag was nowhere to be seen but...there was Will Graham, his back to her, far too close to Hannibal for her comfort. How had he gotten in? What was he doing?

Anger flashed over her. Of course he would be here. He couldn't let Hannibal go. Couldn't let him be happy. She thought about running to Hannibal's office for the phone, but then something dark glimmered that caught her eye.

There was a pistol in his hand. Hannibal hadn't seen it, he was standing in a way that his refrigerator door obscured his line of sight.

She very quickly looked over the kitchen, looking for anything to distract him with, but her eyes landed on Hannibal's knife block. All of the stainless steel handles glittered back at her from the island, a little too close to Graham, but almost exactly where they needed to be for her to grab one and hopefully make her move if she could just get the jump on him.

She crept into the kitchen, careful to keep her reflection out of the glass door behind Hannibal. Hannibal was mumbling something snarky about Will's aftershave, ever undaunted, but even she could feel the anxiousness in his voice. Will replied with something snippy that she didn't catch; she was completely focused on reaching the knife block.

Her heart stopped when Will raised the pistol to Hannibal's head, his thumb reaching up to cock the hammer.

Quickly, in one smooth motion, she slipped a knife from the block and encircled Will from behind with one hand pushing his face harshly up toward the ceiling and the other gouging the blade of the knife into his throat. She felt him stiffen and he pulled his fingers away from the trigger, his other hand raising up defensively, but she held tight.

"Drop it," she whispered, digging her nails into the soft skin of his cheeks.

He inhaled sharply, struggling momentarily against her grip on his face but she dug the edge of the knife in emphatically.

"Is this her?" Will stammered, recoiling from the edge of the knife. "Your little watchdog?"

She made sure Hannibal had taken the pistol from him before she let his face loose, but she kept the knife at his throat. Hannibal dropped the magazine out of the pistol cleared the chamber, quietly amused that Will was threatening him with an empty weapon.

"Watchdog? No. Nora has quite the habit of being in the opportune place at the opportune time. No one would call her something so rude if it weren't for you," Hannibal answered. "Now. Will you let me resume my evening peacefully?"

"I just wanted to drop by. See my best friend," Will said sarcastically. "Didn't mean to barge in on your bonding time. What is she to you, Hannibal? What do you plan on doing with her?"

Nora peeked around Will's shoulders at Hannibal, slightly taken aback at his wording. She searched for any sort of answer in Hannibal's stoic face but the way his eyes glittered back at Will in the dim light of the kitchen was less than comforting.

"I plan on loving her," Hannibal said simply. "Nora, come here."

Thoughtlessly, she rushed to Hannibal, her knees nearly crumbling as she crashed into his chest. He slipped the knife from her hand gently and pulled her back to straighten her robe, tying it before turning her back around to face Will. She could feel his fingers sweeping her bangs away from her face, his other hand curled around her upper arm possessively, but Will's eyes had met hers and she absolutely could not look away.

There was a strange sorrow in his grey-blue eyes. As if he pitied Nora. She shrank back into Hannibal's chest, her entire body buzzing with fear and anger and so many different emotions that she struggled to keep herself on her feet. The way he studied her face didn't help; she felt absolutely exposed in front of him. Hannibal held her between them as if he was offering her up for some sort of inspection. Or, "Look. I have her now. You can't do this because she's here too."

"She took care of your dogs and your home, Will," Hannibal said quietly, straightening her glasses. "I believe you owe her."

She whirled on Hannibal, embarrassed and absolutely aghast that he would suggest such a thing in the middle of the situation. "No no no," she blurted, pleading, but Hannibal curled his arm around her shoulders to cradle her head against his chest. "Nobody owes me anything-"

"Respect, in the very least. Will you at least show her that?"

Nora tensed, unsure of what Will's response would be, but when he didn't answer she glanced back over her shoulder.

He was gone.

* * *

In the few moments that she did sleep that night, Nora only dreamt about the field. The snowy field, the one out in Wolf Trap with the dead hedgerow, where the stag and the wendigo exchanged some wordless understanding after the first night she'd slept at Hannibal's. She felt the wendigo's cold grip on her shoulders as it held her out toward the stag, snow so cold it burned against her skin, the stag pawing at the frozen ground in front of her.

She anticipated the goring this time, but instead, the stag bleated at her, a sorrowful noise that made her heart twist when she woke.

Thankfully, she woke without startling Hannibal. He slept soundly beside her, unusual for him as even the slightest movement usually had him wide awake. In fact, none of the entire night had been usual for him. The tone of his voice when he spoke to Will in the kitchen. The abject way he talked about her.

 _"I plan on loving her."_

It felt so forced. As if he wasn't sure what to say to pacify Will other than that.

 _"What do you plan on doing with her?"_

What kind of question even was that? She dragged herself out of bed, shuffling into the bathroom for a drink of water. The moon was bright enough that it made her reflection in the mirror more of a shadow than anything and she stared at it blankly as she sipped her water, mulling over her dreams again.

She remembered Hannibal trimming her ruined hair in this mirror. Preening her affectionately after the pool incident. She could imagine him so clearly, wrapping her tightly in his arms and kissing her cheeks and shoulders. Comforting her even though he was the one who nearly died. But which one of them had truly had it worse? He'd at least made it out without blood on his hands, she thought, her eyes searching the mirror as if it would answer her.

Blood. Something flipped like a switch in the back of her mind and suddenly all the things she'd locked away about that night came flooding out, like that scene she hated in _The Shining_. Blood everywhere, on the tile, streaming down from the man's neck, in her mouth, under her nails. The blanch of his skin as he struggled to finish off Hannibal, the wet thunk it made when his body hit the slick tile beside her. The wheezing. Air escaping through the knife wound in his neck, gurgling, splattering blood all over her face.

Even her glass of water tasted wrong. Coppery and metallic, like blood, the man's blood, her own blood, the yukhoe made of heart. The wendigo smearing its tarry fingers over her tongue.

She lurched forward, her glass clattering into the sink as she fought back the bile rising in her throat. How quickly had she dismissed that she had taken a human life? How easily had she forgotten? Or was a murderer like that really worth remembering? Hannibal's voice bounced around in the back of her head, all of his little reassurances, his...conditioning?

Her nose and throat burned as her stomach spilled into the sink.

As if on queue, he was behind her, pulling her hair back from her face and turning on the cool water. She could hear him questioning her and asking if she was okay but her mind hung onto her train of thought like a hunting dog on a scent, chasing at it incessantly even as her entire body retched at the idea. She couldn't tell if he was helping or hurting. Filling her mind with only the beautiful facade of their lives together, glossing over the ugly things that she dared not bring up again for fear of ruining it all. She was addicted to the way he lavished her, the way he made her forget the miserable things about herself, about him. It was so easy to ignore that feeling of apprehension she'd had from day one if she was buried in his lips and wine and silk.

All of their little riddle-talks rattled around in her mind. She crumpled to the floor, thudding against the cabinets as she gasped for breath, and Hannibal was already at her side. The towel dabbing at her face, wiping tears away quite literally reminded her of how many times she'd felt suffocated by him. Hidden away. Tucked under his wing for him and only him. For all of the amazing things he had done for her there were just as many that were shady at best, manipulative and downright evil at their worst, and sobs wracked her body.

He had conditioned her so easily into needing him. Any time she'd felt that she overstepped a boundary, like the day before the party when they spoke in the kitchen and she'd seen his mask slip, it always came back on her. Something about her that made the situation seem worse than it was. A past relationship, old expectations, he always artfully reflected it back onto her and framed it as if she was the one picking at threads. As if she was the one who needed fixing in some way, though how he'd spoken about her to Alana had made it seem quite the opposite. Maybe on purpose.

She fell apart without him. And his timing was impeccable. Showing up on her doorstep in the rain with a basket full of food and apologies that would have won him an Oscar.

Was all his talk about Will Graham even true? Another wave of nausea washed over her as she realized the connotations. How else was Will so hellbent on murdering Hannibal? Or at least threatening him with that weird show of power? _What had Hannibal done to him?_

"Nora," he called, and she had to fight hard not to fall victim to his dulcet voice. "Nora, talk to me."

She wanted to pull away from his warm hand against her cheek, but she found herself leaning into it, her vision clouded behind her glasses. He took them off carefully and placed them on the counter, sitting down beside her with a fresh towel.

"Is it what happened in the kitchen?"

"It's _everything_!" she howled, her voice raw and cracking, but then he was pulling her into his lap. He cradled her there, pressing soft kisses into her hair as she cried.

She clung to him. She buried her head in his warm chest and sobbed. This was her comfort zone, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Even in the middle of all her crying, her heart soared when he kissed her forehead, her pulse hammering as she realized just how dangerous that was but...she loved it.

She loved him.

He was a demi-god, a creature not of this earth, meant for realms much higher than this. Lucifer in the truest sense. She loved the hidden depths of him, she ached to know more even when he had presented her with such a wealth of character already. That was the appeal of flirting with the danger about him; the longer she kept it up, the more she chipped away at his facade until finally one day she dreamed of reaching whatever god-forsaken creature was trapped within. She wanted to see it, reach out and touch it. Not glimpse it, like she had just once before. Was it like her?

She shuddered at the thought that this was all his workings, but at the same time she found it strangely amazing that he would go this far just to keep her close to him. Maybe he needed her just as much as she needed him. That he would even put so much effort into a lowly being such as herself sent a refreshing wave of warmth through her body. He was doing all of this for her. Just for her, nobody else. She was his. Half of her wanted to protest his methodology but she let herself bask in the fact that he had worked so hard at weaving her into his life.

So many emotions were fighting inside her. Everything told her to run. Everything told her to stay. God, how fucked this is, she thought.

"What's wrong-" he started, but she flung her arms around his neck, silencing him.

"I love you," she breathed, fighting back another sob. "I love you."

She wasn't sure if he repeated it back. She didn't particularly care, and it wasn't like she could hear him over her hyperventilating hiccups. All she knew was that she had fallen painfully in love with the devil himself, and she resigned herself to this as he carried her back to bed, swaddling her tightly in his navy blankets as she shivered. The devil was nice at least, she thought, but silenced herself when her stomach rolled again.

She watched him listlessly as he cleaned the bathroom, idly wondering if he knew what she was thinking. He always did. There was no way he didn't. Would that change something between them, she wondered? Had he unintentionally broken her? Or was this right on track?

When he returned to her side, new glass of water in hand, his lips were pursed in a hard line. He was thinking hard which surprised her a little.

"Nora," he started again, brushing her hair away from her face. "Did you enjoy your walk through the rest of the palace? Or would you rather I leave you in the solar?"

He knew.


	15. Chapter 15

_"I'd like to resume my therapy."_

The phrase scratched around in the back of Nora's mind like an insect for what seemed like an eternity. She could recall with painful clarity Will Graham's sardonic little smile when she opened the door, and the thought of it absolutely perturbed her. She wanted to hate him. She really did. But then she saw how strangely...upbeat it made Hannibal to have him around again. There was a bright interest in his eyes that she hadn't ever seen before.

She found herself zoning out at work, spinning stems between her fingertips as she pieced together a rather dull request. What was it with the two of them? Will had quite literally tried to kill Hannibal, put Hannibal through a weird grieving process that even she hadn't figured out, threatened him in his own kitchen, and now Hannibal was off in the field with him again as if it was nothing? She knew they had already gone on one investigation, something about a farm and a horse and a whole lot of other wildness, and now they were on to the next and she was left behind yet again.

Jealousy twinged in the pit of her stomach.

The lightest dusting of snow began to fall and she rolled her eyes, wondering how in the world it could even be snowing in March, and on top of that having it start just before her walk home.

"Boyfriend not comin' today?" Dan asked, breaking her out of her trance.

"Ah... I'm not sure, actually. He's been doing some things at work," she mumbled, placing her arrangement in the cooler. "He'll probably come get me later."

"Everything okay with him?"

"Yeah. He's just been working late."

She tried to remind herself of this on her walk home, but the strange silence and coldness of her living room settled onto her as she sat down to read. Was she a plaything? A distraction until Hannibal got his real toy back? Would he discard her? No, she told herself, he'd put all this time and effort into picking her brain apart and putting it back together in his design. He had to have an ulterior motive.

As much as that galled her to think of, she admitted to herself that she would willingly ride straight into the pits of hell with him. Maybe it was all his doings, or maybe she really did love him. Or a mix of both.

Bored, she began to mill about her house, watering her plants and pruning until she was certain Hannibal wouldn't be by. She sighed and and wandered into her bedroom with another book, shedding her clothes for a soft nightgown, but she was nowhere near tired enough to be in bed and lying there made her restless even with her book and warm quilts.

It dawned on her that Hannibal had given her some tea as a gift that she'd never tried, so she shuffled back to the kitchen yet again. She could hear that the light snow had turned to sleet and she watched it bounce off her kitchen window into the dark as her water heated up. It only worsened as she waited and she huffed, telling herself again that there was absolutely no way that Hannibal would come by now, not in such hideous weather.

The box of tea was labeled in Chinese, but she could tell by the scent that it was lapsang souchang. It managed to put a smile on her face and she remembered one of her first conversations with Hannibal, mulling dreamily over the night she met him in Wolf Trap, how long they'd talked on the phone the next day. The spices in her tea reminded her so much of his own scent that it sent a little shiver down her spine. Almost like he's standing here with me, she thought. How appropriate.

When her tea had finished steeping, she cleaned her infuser and grabbed her mug to take it back to her room, but she caught herself glancing back out the kitchen window one more time. The sleet had slowed, but it was painfully dark outside since the weather had settled in and-

She froze, steeling herself. A single milky eye peered around the back of her head, looking back at her in her reflection on the window. She reached up slowly to straighten her glasses, wondering what in the world her next move should even be, but the Wendigo didn't touch her. Instead, it straightened behind her, looming over her small reflection. It was backlit by the dim light from her living room, making it seem as if it were only a shadow behind her, but she knew better.

"What do you want from me?" she tried, but her words didn't make a sound. Silence settled over them and soon she couldn't hear the sleet or even distant city noises. A damp cold settled over her kitchen and she fought back a shiver, but for the first time, she felt no fear. Not even looking straight into its cloudy eyes.

She turned slowly, facing it willingly for the first time. Silhouetted, she couldn't see its face in detail, but something churning in the pit of her stomach told her that she knew exactly what she was looking at. That she had known the entire time. How could she have missed it, she mused, peering up at it cautiously. She didn't flinch when its frigid hands came to rest on her cheeks, skeletal fingers so long that they curled around the back of her head and into her hair. There was a much different air about it than previous encounters. Gentle, maybe. As if it had just popped by for a visit like an old friend.

Tentatively, she began to reach up to its shadowed face, her other hand holding onto her mug desperately for some sort of warmth. It dipped its head to her in response, antlers knocking against her hanging window plants behind her soundlessly.

She took a deep, shuddering breath before she finally allowed her fingers to skim its ashen skin. Leathery, icy, too soft like rotten flesh. Just as she remembered from before. She pressed against its gaunt cheeks curiously as if to test its elasticity, wondering if it would give and break like a thin film, but the creature leaned into her touch.

Nora skimmed her thumb over its painfully high and sharp cheekbones, feeling a numbness settle over her body as she began to confirm what she should have already known. The Wendigo's face was his. So perfectly his. The heavy-lidded eyes, the shape of his nose, his Cupid's bow lips.

This, she thought, was what really lay beneath Hannibal's glorious facade. The wretched creature within. Even if this all was just some grand hallucination, if the Wendigo was some conjured image from the depths of her mind, she knew that this was him in his truest sense. All of the little fragments of hints and clues in her mind began to fit together bit by bit; Will Graham, the Ripper, all of his guarded answers and loaded questions. But as the creature nuzzled into her touch, its own hand coming up to cover her own almost affectionately, the final detail flashed over her like a blast of heat from a furnace.

Cannibal.

A Wendigo was a cannibal.

Suddenly, there was a wet heat in the palm of her hand. The creature tugged her palm away from its face and showed it to her as if to offer an explanation of some sort, but all she saw was the blackened blood dripping from her hand and onto her stark white tile. She watched it trail down her forearm in horror, her mug slipping out of her other hand and shattering at their feet. The tea's spices and the metallic tang of blood flooded her senses and she gasped, frozen in the Wendigo's hold, her heart hammering as she implications of it all whirled through her head.

She looked to the Wendigo in shock, as if she could ask it for answers, but it was focused on the blood dripping from her forearm and fingers. It tapped a finger against her palm, almost like it was testing the temperature. As if the temperature could somehow be too hot for it to touch. But then it was smearing blood over her lower lip, slowly, tilting her chin up as if to kiss her. Chocolate, she thought. Chocolate and blood oranges. Hannibal kissing her in his kitchen, his hips trapping hers against the counter, the heat from his skin searing her the way the Wendigo's skin chilled her to the bone.

Surely, he hadn't been feeding her any of his prey, she thought. Surely to all the gods he wouldn't but... The yukhoe.

A heart. His deranged, exclusively personal way of showing her his love. His apology for having left her in the dark.

Headlights swept over her living room through the front window, briefly flashing over the kitchen. The moment she turned to look, the Wendigo was gone, and she realized she was standing in a cold pool of tea and shattered ceramic. Her hands were clean, there was no blood on her lip, but she could still feel it creeping over her skin and she shuddered.

The doorbell brought her fully back to reality. She jumped, gasping, scrambling to the front door to peek out.

"Nora?" Hannibal called, and her heart stopped.

She eased the door open, fighting a tremor of fear. Fear that she should have felt from the Wendigo.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, and she wanted to believe the concern on his face was genuine. "You're blanched. Like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh! Uh..." She glanced back over her shoulder, searching for an excuse. Her broken mug was enough. "I dropped my tea. Thought I cut myself."

"I'll help you clean it up."

She let him in without question. For all of the terror that she felt of seeing him again, of having him in her own home, she also felt strangely placid. Like this was no different than any other visit of his.

"I take it this was the tea I gifted you?" he asked, kneeling beside her with a dish towel. "It smells lovely."

"Yes, actually. I was going to take it to bed and try to relax but I guess I didn't get a good grip on my mug," she lied. She picked up the bigger pieces of ceramic carefully, dropping them on a paper plate. "It smells like you. I think I would have loved it."

He smiled warmly. "I did say it was my favorite. If you still want to come with me tonight, I'll make you some of my own. I understand I'm inexcusably late."

"It's fine. I thought you might be working late."

"I was. I had hoped you weren't in bed."

"No...just relaxing," she murmured. "I think that's clean. I'll go change. You can come sit on my bed if you want, it's warmer in my room."

He nodded and followed her, carefully picking through her bookcase in her room instead of perching on her bed. She shed her gown quickly, not wanting to have him out of sight, but she caught herself hurrying. It's irrational, she told herself. He wasn't going to hurt her. Not if he had kept her around all this time. Panicking and acting rushed would only alarm him.

Fear began to morph into curiosity. She took her time picking an outfit and packing a little, idly wondering just exactly whose heart had been in that dish. As sickening as it was, as...wrong as it was, she couldn't stop wondering. She needed to know more. Especially about him. How he'd become this monster. Her monster. His presence behind her should have felt like something of pure evil but instead she felt as if she was standing in the aura of a god, a gatekeeper of the dead. A man who judged the souls of others and ushered them onward to the other side at his discretion. It was...beautiful, in a way. And horrifying. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't vilify him.

She couldn't push him out of her mind and didn't want to. She had seen his darkness. She wanted more.

 _"You would be wont to open the coffin door after it's closed. Your brand of curiosity is quite dangerous. But I like it."_

"I'm ready," she said finally, slinging her bag over his shoulder. He snapped her book shut, tucking it neatly back where it belonged, but she took his hand gently as he moved toward her door. "Hannibal..."

He turned back to her, puzzled. She stepped closer to him, her pulse pounding in her ears, but her need to know was far stronger than her nerves.

Pointedly, she lay her hand over his heart. "Who was it?" she asked lowly.

The long, heavy silence between them sent her pulse skyrocketing. He clasped her hand to his chest gently, tugging her closer, his eyes sweeping over her face to try and judge the true meaning of her question. Did he trust her enough, she wondered? Was this the end of it if he didn't trust her? Images of her own body lying dead, surrounded artfully by her own plants on her kitchen counter flashed through her mind, but then he was kissing her deeply and she fought back a sigh of relief as he pulled her tightly against his chest.

"I was beginning to think you would never ask," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Come, Nora. I have such sights to show you."


	16. Chapter 16

****Just wanted to add a little TW for rape mentions later in this chapter. Also: I am so sorry I took like 4 months to get this out. Life's been rough. Bear with me, I have large things planned for Nora. Thanks to everyone out there who is still favoriting and reviewing!****

In the coming days, Nora would find herself almost completely absorbed into Hannibal's life.

Bit by bit, her things began to migrate from her home to his. Her plants were the first to move; together they lined an upstairs room with shelves and lamps, casting aside all the drapes to allow the natural light to shine in. It soon morphed into a sort of personal reading nook for the two of them, complete with a couple of chairs and her bookshelves from home, leaving quite an empty void in her cottage. Many of her decorations made their way into the room as her plant collection continued to grow, giving the room an otherworldly and rather fantastical glow from all of her hanging glass lanterns and beaded sun catchers. Her specimens and oddities began to appear on the tables scattered around the room.

Some of her wardrobe made it. Some of it she donated or trashed, depending on its condition, and Hannibal was more than happy to indulge her with new, more refined clothes. Many of her dramatic skirts were replaced with shorter, fitted a-line or circle skirts, her ragged cardigans exchanged for newer ones that didn't have holes in the elbows and cuffs. He had her measured and fitted for dress pants and comfortable jeans and showered her in all sorts of blouses that he again claimed reminded him of a librarian. It suited her, but at the same time she felt like she'd completely morphed into a different facet of herself. Even her "casual" outfits had evolved into more of his favorite high-necked lacy blouses. Black or ivory, as per her requests, but she never protested when he draped her in deep maroon and emerald greens.

Before she knew it, summer was in full swing and her house was for sale. Alana commented on how she'd miss that house and that she wished she could move into it herself, but Nora couldn't see the sentimental ties to it anymore.

They talked for quite some time as Nora cleaned out the last closet. Alana paced behind her, waxing poetic about all the nostalgia she held for the house. Some things were nice memories, Nora admitted, but she wanted nothing more than to be done with the house and shed of it.

Any regretful thoughts she had about selling her house were quickly pushed out of her mind by Hannibal. At night, when her thoughts always seemed to get the better of her, he would lie with her on a chaise lounge he'd pulled into their reading nook. He always had some way of making her feel safe whether it was reading to her or tracing her skin with lily petals, lulling her to sleep most nights with warm tea and Debussy playing softly in the background. It was almost like he was being overly tender with her, as if he thought that she would somehow rail against him and bolt now that she knew his deepest secrets, but even when it did begin to eat at her she kept it to herself.

She knew he could see the questioning in her eyes when she stirred in the middle of the night. Even her slightest movements woke him and she would end up staring across the pillows at him, his dark eyes searching her face for hints or clues to what she was thinking. Most of the time, it was a pang of fear that woke her in the first place and she was certain he could hear her pulse hammering away as she tried to justify her reasons for being there, in the dark, in bed with a man who had taken more lives and eaten even more of his victims than she cared to admit. A man who had the capacity to end her life in the blink of an eye. And yet he chose to spare her, for reasons she didn't quite understand.

Her bed was with Hades, the impartial judge. Not a single soul was to ever leave his domain save her, who he allowed to come and go freely, always trusting that she would come home to him.

* * *

"The Chesapeake Ripper."

Hearing the words spill out of Alana's mouth sent a violent shiver down Nora's spine. She shuddered and clinked her nails against the foot of her wine glass, tuning out the rest of the conversation until she could settle her nerves again.

"...and I don't think that Will going back to Hannibal after everything that's happened is a good idea. I think it's a terrible one, to be quite honest. And I've told _everyone_ this but nobody seems to think anything of it," Alana huffed, struggling to keep her hair from flying across her face in the warm summer breeze. "Am I wrong?"

"You know how I feel about Will," Nora mumbled. "But I just think that maybe Hannibal is so excited about having his best friend back that he doesn't really see the toxicity of it. I've never seen someone so invested in a relationship."

"I feel like I'm just screaming at nothing. Nobody's listening. Does Hannibal talk to you about it?"

"He doesn't."

"I don't see how Jack is okay with them working together again... I-..."

Nora raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for Alana to finish.

"I don't trust Will anymore. I can't. I don't understand his motives or ideas or anything he's doing anymore and I don't know how to feel about it," Alana bumbled, picking absently at her plate. "He's a completely different person."

 _Hannibal does that to people_ , Nora thought, and she had to bite her tongue not to say it out loud. She stared off the edge of the restaurant balcony absently, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose out of habit. What could she even say to that?

"What does it feel like? Being on the inside of things?" Alana asked, and Nora again was at a loss for words.

"...Hannibal keeps 'us' very, very well separated from whatever he's got going on in his office," Nora sighed. "I've seen a few of his clients. I know when Will comes in, I know when the Verger girl comes in, but outside of that I never hear about it. They haven't had any cases lately so it's almost like Will just doesn't exist right now. Or like he's on a completely different plane of existence."

"That's entirely believable at this point. I just...don't want the two of you getting hurt. Again."

Something clicked in the depth's of her thoughts, like a tumbler in a combination lock.

Will _knew._

How could she have missed that? All this time, wondering why Will had such a wild vendetta against his own therapist, but when Nora considered his position in the situation and how he'd been accused, the puzzle pieces began to fall into place. All the different clips of news she'd seen on his mental state, the "evidence", the suspicion that eventually came back around on Hannibal made so much sense knowing that Hannibal had orchestrated every killing that Will was suspected of.

Will had tried so desperately to expose Hannibal. Jack Crawford's presence at the dinner party also made sense considering he'd only shown up to snag an appetizer and run; he was testing the food. Will had to have been slipping them information to lead them to Hannibal. But Hannibal was always three steps ahead.

So then what in the _living hell_ was Will Graham doing back in Hannibal's office? Were they both trying to trap each other? Corner the other into taking sides?

 _How far am I going to let myself get dragged into this?_ she thought, and the question plagued her until Alana had driven her home and was saying her goodbyes for the evening.

She hadn't eaten with Alana. Hannibal had insisted she wait for his little impromptu dinner with some of his acquaintances in the orchestra so she had picked at an appetizer and half-heartedly sipped at whatever house wine the waiter had recommended. When he answered the door, though, what little appetite she had left disappeared; she could smell his cooking from the foyer.

"Perfect timing," he chirped, dipping down to greet her with a warm kiss. "I was just cleaning the kitchen and finishing up. Would you like to set the table?"

"Which set?"

"You have the better eye for color. Something pleasant and warm. Maybe the stoneware?"

"The canvas-colored set?"

It shocked her a bit when he paused to kiss her again, his fingers trailing upwards beneath her chin to leverage her into it a little deeper. Just enough to fluster her.

"Grenache?" he questioned, and she blinked up at him in utter confusion. "I thought you weren't fond of the spice notes."

"You changed my mind about it," she murmured.

He let his thumb trail over her lips briefly, giving her the barest hint of a smile before disappearing back into the kitchen.

He didn't question her choices of place-settings anymore. She had learned very quickly how he liked things done and how to work around his tastes, leaving him more time to tinker with his cooking, but it took her several trips to retrieve all of the matching plates and silverware. And each trip brought something to her attention that she wished she hadn't seen.

The maroon tint to the edge of his cutting board. The little box of recipes she'd never seen before, all hand-written in his impossibly neat script. The unusual amount of dirtied cutlery in the sink.

When the few guests began to arrive, Hannibal had her seat them and offer drinks before ushering her to her own seat at the table, reintroducing all of them briefly as if she hadn't just seen them a few nights ago at a ridiculously lavish charity concert. Food began to appear and they all ooh'd and aah'd at the dishes, showering Hannibal with praise that Nora knew he was soaking up like a dry sponge.

She noticed that someone was missing from their spot at the table.

"Where's Luis?" someone asked, and she realized she'd drawn attention to the empty spot.

Luis. The photographer. She remembered his sideways remark to her about her dress, something crass she hadn't quite caught about how he wanted to take it off her but apparently he had been within earshot of Hannibal.

"I invited him, but he never responded," Hannibal answered. He very carefully settled a large platter in the center of the table. "His loss. This is one of my favorite recipes."

"I'm kind of glad he's not here. He's such a sleaze. I don't know how he even gets invited to our events," someone groaned.

Nora stared blankly at the roasted pork-belly dish that Hannibal was ever-so-delicately carving away at.

 _How far can I let this go?_

When he was seated beside her and everyone was served, she gave him a questioning glance. The smug little upturn of his lips, just subtle enough for only her to see, confirmed her suspicions and she dug her nails into her palms to keep her composure.

And then he had the _gall_ , the brazenness to offer her a bite. In front of the entire table. The guests chuckled, prodding her playfully over it when she hesitated, but she knew he had her cornered.

This was his show. His grand stage. He had his little audience present to watch whatever this dance between the two of them was, the setting was right, the chemistry was... _there_ , she realized, and she hated herself for it. How could this be so intimate? Was it his smile, was it his eyes? Or had he swept her up in another one of his Pavlovian experiments, rewiring her brain to associate just the action with something innocent and flirty?

Her entire body was betraying her mind.

Betraying was an understatement. For a brief, terrifying moment she felt as if her thoughts were completely independent of the rest of her body. As if her skull had been removed and set aside and she was just watching herself go through the motions from a distance.

Her body decided that pork belly-...no, Luis was delicious, while the rest of her screamed vehemently that this was beyond wrong, that she should spit it out and run. _Why? Why didn't you just say no?_

"Have you ever traveled to Japan?"

The question rattled Nora's inner monologue enough to bring her back to reality and she snapped her attention to the man who had asked it, finding something behind his head to stare at instead of looking him in the eyes. She couldn't. Not when his photographer had just been served to him on canvas-colored stoneware.

"Once," Hannibal answered wistfully. "Why do you ask?"

"The flavor reminds me of pork belly I had while I was there. But it's just a little different. Don't know how, but I love it. I thought you might have learned the recipe there."

Nora stifled a shudder at Hannibal's smile. For the first time, the word _wicked_ flashed through her train of thought.

"Maybe I should make another trip. Nora has never been outside the US," Hannibal mused, half to her, half to the guests. She knew it was meant to be a sort of proposal, as if he was asking her if she would like to go, but she didn't have to answer. Of course she would go. Did she have a choice?

She blindly navigated the conversations until finally the dishes were being cleared away and she stood numb at the sink, helping Hannibal slot plates into the dishwasher as he rinsed them off. He babbled to her happily about the possibility of a trip for the two of them, telling her all about some obscure town he'd read about eons ago that he had always wanted to visit, but he noticed her silence almost immediately.

She didn't remember when they'd finished the dishes or how they'd made it to bed. Her body was on autopilot, her mind still looping endlessly back to the fact that he had literally smoothed her into eating another human. Even if it was just a bite, just a small, tiny bite, the premise of it was completely and royally _fucked_. As was her entire relationship with him. And yet there she was, standing at the foot of his bed as he peppered the slope of her neck with apologetic kisses.

"I didn't intend for you to feel...pressured," he said softly, his fingers making short work of the buttons on her blouse. She wanted to fight the heat washing over her, the ache burning in her core, but his hands ghosting over the curve of her hips and his teeth nipping at the back of her neck made it impossible.

"Next time, let it just be the two of us," she breathed. Next time? _Next time?_ Had those words really come out of her mouth?

"Was it the other guests?"

He slipped her blouse away from her shoulders and she turned to face him, her hands settling on the strong planes of his chest as he leaned down to kiss her deeply. She willingly melted into him, not bothering to silence the whimper that worked its way out of her when he pulled her hips tight against his.

"I felt it was intimate," he whispered coarsely, sweeping her up onto the bed. "Sharing something that only we really know the nature of."

"Maybe I'm not quite ready to share."

He chuckled then, rasping at her collarbones with sharp bites that made her gasp and arch up to him desperately.

"I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

The news was turned up so loud that it rattled around the entire shop. Most of it was mundane; for once it didn't set her on edge and Nora actually sat and half-heartedly listened to it as she crimped floral picks on silk flowers.

"Who is this order for? We haven't had a headstone marker in a while," Nora called, and Dan rummaged through the tickets on his desk to check.

"Says a Luis Campana. We've got a few for him, actually. Couple of standing wreaths and a casket topper. Wreaths are fresh so we can do those tomorrow."

Nora blanched. She kept her face turned toward the front windows, staring out into the street until she could regain her composure.

"It's that guy who was on the news earlier. You didn't hear it?" Dan continued.

"No, I guess I was at lunch when you cut it on," she mumbled.

"Oh. It was pretty rough. Said he got skinned alive like a deer. Left his face and stuff though, dunno what that's all about."

She didn't hear the rest of the conversation. Her pulse thumping in her ears drowned it out completely.

It took her far too long to put together the headstone arrangement. She mulled over what the order requested and what she felt like she _owed_ his family, as if sneaking in extra flowers and higher-end accents would somehow make it up to him or whoever loved him, but a quiet voice reprimanded her from some dark corner of her mind.

 _Nobody will miss him. He was a desperate, walking sexual harassment case. You've run into people like him before, nothing good ever comes of them._

She paused. Where had that come from? There was no evidence he'd acted that way to anyone else, for all she knew he was a fairly decent person who'd had too much to drink but-

 _A stiff drink is great at removing filters. Maybe that's what he's really like, deep down._

She purposefully pressed the pad of her thumb against a sharp floral pick, rattling her thoughts back into some semblance of order.

 _Don't try to justify this._

Her thoughts were quiet at least until closing time. Hannibal's car sitting at the curb waiting for her completely undid her mental silence.

Hannibal picked up on her shaken nerves as soon as she sat down in the seat of his car. She sank into the leather and huffed, fiddling with her glasses as he peered over at her curiously.

"I thought you might like to go to the market with me," he chirped.

Was he just going to dance around the subject like that?

 _He wants me to ask. He wants me to bring it up first. Fine._

"Skinned alive?" she blurted, finally meeting his gaze.

"It might relieve you to know he was a serial offender," Hannibal started, calmly settling a warm hand at her knee.

"As in...?"

"He raped several women, Nora."

"And you know this how?"

"Through several sources. A patient of mine, for one, who had an encounter with him. The second chair violinist, multiple clients of his, the realtor who sold him his home are the ones he _admitted_ to me."

"Why didn't your patient go to the police? Or for that matter why didn't anyone say anything?" she asked, shock flashing over her as she realized she was siding with Hannibal.

"Blackmail. Nude photos, photos of the women with other men. And his status with the upper class, if we're being honest. Speaking out against him would likely only have ruined societal standings and reputations for themselves while he remained unscathed."

Nora took a heavy breath, her hand curling around Hannibal's when he squeezed her knee.

"I heard what he said to you. Very clearly. And for the first time in my life, I found it extremely hard to just _let it go_ ," he said, and his tone sent an awful chill slithering down the back of her neck and to the very base of her spine.

What would she even say to that? Was she supposed to be grateful that he was dead? In some ways, she admitted she was, but was she supposed to outright thank Hannibal for what he'd done?

No matter how hard she thought, how hard she looked into her own soul to search for an acceptable opinion or response or really anything, she found that she absolutely could not blame Hannibal. Not in the least.

"Thank you," she tried, her voice barely a whisper. "I guess that's why you chose pork belly? A pig?"

He simply smiled and threaded their fingers together.


	17. Chapter 17

"I can't believe it's snowing already."

Hannibal glanced up from his sketchpad, peering around Nora curiously as she held the curtains back from the window.

"It is December," he reminded her. "But it does seem early."

"Didn't it start right after Thanksgiving? It just seems off. I know it did this last year but I always remembered it being almost New Year's Eve before seeing snow."

She pulled the rest of the curtains back, flooding the room with dim morning light. The overcast weather set an eerie cast to their little room; she felt as if she was standing in a long abandoned museum wing, surrounded by overgrown plants with all her little sun-catcher baubles scattering colored light like broken stained glass.

It was strangely fitting for Hannibal, who sat perched among the greenery on his favorite chaise lounge, wiping charcoal from his fingers and smiling warmly back at Nora. She could almost picture him wandering the halls of her imagined museum in one of his immaculate suits, stopping at every single painting or exhibit to admire it or dust it off affectionately. Maybe, she thought, that was what the inside of his mind looked like. Maybe it wasn't a castle like she imagined.

She wondered if he placed his victims on display as wet specimens or if he simply hung their portraits in a hallway that never seemed to end.

"Do you remember our conversation before your dinner party back in spring? About palaces and castles?" she asked, carefully winding her way around to sit on the end of his chaise lounge.

"Of course."

He put his sketchpad to the side, pulling her up so that she could lie alongside him with her head tucked into his shoulder.

"Do you think of everyone's...mind in that way? Like it's just a big labyrinth of hallways and rooms in a big stone castle?" she asked, absently tracing the outline of the cable knit on the front of his sweater.

"In a way. I feel that everyone has a very different interpretation of this, and that it's not necessarily a castle like you would picture, but people segregate their memories into different rooms. Maybe categorically. Maybe based on how pleasant or unpleasant or even useful a memory is. There's always a foyer or a gateway, somewhere you might spend a fair amount of time in as it's shared with others most often. Something that can be imagined and decorated with a clear interpretation of personality."

"What do you think mine looks like?"

"That's a difficult question. Do you know yourself? Or are you asking me in hopes of assigning it a theme?" he asked, and Nora knew her feigned confidence would be seen straight through.

"I have my own ideas. But I want to know what you think it's like. Just out of curiosity."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, fighting a smug grin. Of course he would like this, she thought. He lived for this kind of mental dissection.

"A Victorian mansion," he started, shifting a little so that he could comfortably comb his fingers through her hair and follow the shapes of her face. "Long uninhabited and empty. With a wrap around porch. The most ornate oak paneling and parquet floors the world has ever seen, marble and tile fireplaces, coffered ceilings. You hang gauzy curtains over all the windows to filter out the outside world but they only blur what you can see, they never block it out entirely. It makes the house seem darker than it is."

He paused and Nora realized how desperately she was hanging on to his every word.

"It's a dreary facade. If someone were to follow you through the house, you would lead them to a glass greenhouse where you spend most of your time. There are panes missing and the metal frame has a heavy patina, but it's warm. Bright," he continued, pushing her glasses a little farther up her nose to get a clear look at her eyes. "Overgrown but it's an orderly chaos. It's always green and always in bloom. Your favorite memories are reflecting pools and gazing balls scattered around, nearly hidden by all the flora, only for you to find. The others that you aren't fond of are buried beneath vines and shut away in the crawlspace beneath the house."

"Am I that guarded?" she asked.

"Are you?"

His echo caught her off-guard and she blinked up at him incredulously.

"Get dressed," he said suddenly, nudging her out of the warm spot against his side. "You'll be late to work if we keep on like this."

* * *

Initially, Nora was able to visualize Hannibal's description of her palace fairly well. She spent most of her day at work daydreaming about the empty mansion and overgrown greenhouse, wondering which memories she would decide to keep where and how long they might occupy their space. It was a strange concept, but one that she thoroughly enjoyed manipulating, especially after Hannibal had given her such interesting imagery to work with.

The crawlspace he had mentioned was something that she saved for last; she had spent the majority of her time arranging pleasant memories, mostly of him and Alana, but every time she'd come back around to the crawlspace she balked. It was a bothersome place, dark and empty and full of loamy soil, and she quickly put it out of her mind.

She didn't want to think about the things that would occupy that space. The Wendigo was an option but it seemed more at home roaming the empty halls, looming just behind the curtains and casting shadows across her foyer. Something had to live in the house; she'd always heard that a house with no occupants was like a human without a spirit, and that it would rot and collapse from the inside out.

When Hannibal picked her up from work, she thought she had shut it out of her mind. Closed the lattice over the entrance and moved back into her garden. But the body laying across his dining room table, blank-eyed and gaping back at her, would absolutely not let her forget.

She stood there silently for quite some time, staring at it, imagining it slack-jawed and decaying beneath her beautiful memory palace. Just next to it lay Luis Campana, a little farther along in his return to the earth, and beside him was the orderly from the night at the pool. Her boot knife sat covered in soil and rot beneath the orderly.

If Will Graham had said anything to Hannibal then, she hadn't heard it. Or maybe she had ignored it. She had seen him just behind the dining room table, smiling as if he'd brought Hannibal a trophy, and the sight of him had made her stomach churn.

Will Graham never, ever brought good things. She decided then that he was poisonous, a walking plague that existed only to try and uproot what she had so carefully constructed with Hannibal. The body was a one-up, a showy gift like a bird bringing a shiny bottle cap or a keyring back to his mate's nest. And she hated him.

Christ, she hated him. The corpse lying across the table should have been more of a shock but she could only focus on just how much she _loathed_ him, how much she despised his stupid little games of cat and mouse with Hannibal. He was so wishy-washy, bouncing back and forth between wanting to expose Hannibal and wanting to be his best friend, and it galled her beyond reason that Hannibal would even put up with his antics.

She disappeared as soon as the body had been moved and the table cleaned. His presence was like a splinter beneath her thumbnail. Unpleasant, disruptive, inflammatory. She knew, logically, that she should have been more shellshocked by the process but for the first time in her life anger had absolutely consumed her and she could do nothing about it.

When he was finally gone, Hannibal put together a light dinner. He didn't speak of it, and neither did she.

"How do you feel about Italy?" he asked suddenly, jarring her enough to make her jolt and bump her dinner plates.

"Italy?" she murmured. "What about it?"

"Florence. I was thinking an extended stay might be nice. Maybe in the spring. Have you ever traveled outside the US?"

"No, but you know how much I love to look at your drawings of Florence."

"We'll take them with us and see how accurate my memory is," he said, and the warmth in his voice felt genuine for once. "And we'll have to get you a passport. What's troubling you, Nora?"

She couldn't meet his gaze. She bit her lip, staring down at her plate as if rearranging her food would provide her some sort of supernatural answer like tea leaves in a mug.

"If I could articulate it, I would," she answered. "But I'm not entirely sure what to tell you."

His silence was more shocking than the previous events of the night; he didn't press her, instead turning his attentions to a new bottle of wine that sat between them. She watched him uncork it and decant it, noting the color to be as dark as the blood she'd wiped off his immaculate table.

"Syrah?" she asked.

"Correct. 2008, a Côte Rotie. I find it's wonderful with wild game."

 _Wild game_. Oh, what a loaded phrase.

"You're overthinking our conversation from this morning," he continued, and internally she sighed. There was no escaping his needling. "Trying to fill it all in. Have you placed anything in the empty rooms?"

"No. Just the crawlspace," she said simply.

"Nothing in your greenhouse?"

"Not yet."

But then he was offering her an over-filled glass of Syrah and suddenly her cheeks were warm and pink, like sitting in front of his fireplace for far too long. There was another glass, the dinner plates were moved, and she let herself be ushered into his living room and onto the familiar leather couch. She could hear him rooting around in a desk and paper crinkling before he settled with her beneath his arm, pencils and a sketch pad in his other hand.

"Does your palace have gingerbread trim? Running trim, beaded railing?" he asked, gathering her up close to his side so that she could see. "What about the front door?"

* * *

One of the few things that Nora remembered that night was Hannibal delicately wiping smudged graphite from her cheek; it was so rare to hear him laugh but her heart absolutely _soared_ at the sound. Was he happy? What about? For a man who had just cleared a corpse out of his own home, he seemed more than a little upbeat.

It was Florence, she realized. The promise of being in Italy. The prospect of not having to enjoy it alone. He was absolutely enthralled with the idea of showing her everything he'd come to love about the city because he knew she'd be just as enamored as him.

His smile was refreshing. She watched him sketch in a love-sick haze she hadn't felt since she was a teenager, mesmerized by the little upturn of his lips and the way his eyes never quite seemed to be still as he drew. Her palace came to life almost exactly as she envisioned, complete with the lattice beneath the porch and flowers dotting the yard, but she couldn't bring herself to look away from him for more than a few seconds at a time.

Maybe there was a conversation about it - she wasn't sure, her memory was fuzzy, but she remembered him kissing her with his warm fingers cupped around her cheeks and woven into her hair. She remembered him describing an alleyway in Florence, something like a Lover's Lane, and then he was laughing at the smears of graphite he'd left on her face.

It took several attempts to get her up the stairs and to his room. She had no clue how she'd gotten so drunk but even his sharp cheekbones were flushed, just enough to notice in the dim hallways. When she teased him about it, he responded by tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of flour, chiding her with another laugh that she couldn't hold her liquor.

She hit the bed with a bounce. By the time she'd oriented herself to her surroundings he was cleaning her face with a cool rag, gently prying her hands away from the buttons on his waistcoat.

"You're absolutely intoxicated," he told her.

"I know. I just want to be close."

"Close?"

"Because I love you. You're so warm and it just feels nice...am I making sense?"

"As much sense as you can make in your current state," he chuckled. "Lie down, I'll-"

"But I do love you."

She could feel him pause before he turned away, his fingers skimming the sides of her neck until they found the chain of a necklace to follow. It was the one he'd given her, the moonstone set in silver, and she beamed at him when he stopped to inspect it as if he'd forgotten about it.

"Moonlight of my night," he replied, softly, almost a whisper. "Now lie down, I'm going to bring you some water. Tomorrow will be a long day if you wake up first thing with a hangover."

He didn't have to beg her. The bed felt as if it would tilt out from under her but Nora sank into it appreciatively, her heart thudding in her ears as she replayed his words over and over again in her mind. _Moonlight of my night_. How saccharine, especially for Hannibal.

Florence seemed more and more enticing by the minute. She could imagine herself wandering the narrow streets with him, arm-in-arm, picking flowers out of window boxes and eating zucotto beneath a cafe awning. Alone, with him, with no patients, no Alana, no cases, and no Will.

 _No Will._

The notion made her pulse skip several beats. She almost couldn't picture life without Will at this point, but the thought of not having to walk on eggshells even in her own home was appealing by itself. No corpses on the table. Nobody waiting in the kitchen with a pistol, nobody to send hitmen, nobody to plague Hannibal's thoughts. Hannibal, ideally, would be all hers again.

* * *

She slept hard, tucked neatly against Hannibal's chest. At first, her dreams were just branches of her wandering thoughts; imaginations of Italy and Hannibal's warm hands cupped around her face, stained glass scattering rainbows across his marble skin. But then they were on a bed of flowers, tangled together by dark green ivy that twisted around her legs and the jutting mahogany bed posts that seemed to touch the greenhouse roof. She could hear Hannibal whisper something about aconite and how beautifully the purple color sat against her skin.

In her dream, his voice sounded so far away. " _Does it have a taste? Aconite?_ " he asked, and Nora felt as if she was sinking through the soft petals.

" _It's too bitter,_ " she answered. " _Atropa Belladonna is sweet._ "

" _Another purple. Aubergine. My favorite._ "

" _It's not as potent._ "

Nora rolled across her imaginary bed, plucking dark berries from the overgrown headboard. Will Graham gaped at her from the crawlspace beneath her memory palace, his eyes glazed but alert, and she could feel Hannibal reaching over her toward him.

She woke with a start; Hannibal leaning over her in her flower bed, feeding Will nightshade berries between the slats in the crawlspace lattice played on repeat in the hazy corners of her mind.

"Are you alright?" Hannibal asked, lazily pulling her back across his mattress.

It took her a moment to reorient herself to the real world. She caught herself glancing across the bed to make sure the walls were where they were supposed to be, and quickly at the rest of the bed.

"Nora?" he pressed.

"Sorry. It was a weird dream," she answered. "I think I'm just sobering up."

"Most likely. Was it a nightmare?"

"Not really. I'll tell you about it in the morning."

Satisfied with her answer, he settled back into his pillows. She was thankful that he didn't question her. How would she explain it?

She lay awake for quite some time, listening to Hannibal's steady breathing and the fading embers in the fireplace. The dream faded each time she made an attempt to recall it, but Will Graham behind the lattice did not. _Atropa belladonna_ was heavy on her tongue, begging her to whisper it to herself.

Will looked like he belonged behind the lattice, next to his little trophy and Luis and the orderly. Somehow he completed the scene. She considered the implication and was only slightly shocked when she felt nothing.

Will Graham, she decided, would be the last thing she put in the crawlspace. Or rather, Hannibal would put him in the crawlspace. Her obvious involvement would be her demise and she knew better than to try and manipulate Hannibal, but Will was another story. He was impressionable. Desperate for validation, looking for something that she could easily give him in the form of words in his mouth. Words that Hannibal would tire of, or find treacherous and deceitful. Will had already made several grievous missteps and one more could sour him completely if she was careful enough.

When she finally drifted off to sleep again, she dreamt of boarding up the crawlspace entirely while Hannibal slept soundly in the grass and golden sunbeams. The Wendigo would never leave but instead of wandering restlessly in the house, it sat at ease near the windows, content to keep watch over them as they lounged in the yard.

* * *

 _ ******Look I know it's been since like February since I updated but I just wanted to say thanks to the people that still follow this and leave me reviews, it means a lot to me. My life has been a garbage fire as of late and I've slacked on writing, so please excuse this chapter, but I hope the imagery of what I'm trying to convey comes off clearly. I'm trying to get myself back into my writing groove but after leaving this fic unattended for so long, it's hard. Thanks again for sticking around.******_


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